


Get Out There

by Shibsae (Refkins)



Category: Persona 5, Persona 5: Dancing in Starlight
Genre: ACAB, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Aged-Up Character(s), Akechi is evil, Akira is a bicon, Akira is chaotic, Akira is on the spectrum probs, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Blackmail, Boston, Cameo: Belladonna (Persona Series), Cameo: Elizabeth (Pesona Series), Cameo: Nameless (Persona), Cameo: Theodore (Persona Series), Everybody's at least in their 20s, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Kisses, Hurt/Comfort, I separated it from the other chapters so you can skip it, I wrote this before P5:R happened so none of that is taken into consideration, I wrote this for one joke y'all, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, Law Enforcement, Light Bondage, MBTA, Makoto & Sae have fixed their relationship, Makoto's PoV but third person, Morgana is a regular cat, Neck Kissing, New York City, Oral Sex, Past Tense, Past: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Past: Akechi Goro/Niijima Makoto, Past: Kitagawa Yusuke/Togo Hifumi, Referenced: Kitagawa Yusuke/Togo Hifumi, Referenced: Nonbinary Shirogane Naoto, Referenced: Okumura Haru/Takamaki Ann, Referenced: Sakura Sojiro, Referenced: Shirogane Naoto, Referenced: Shirogane Naoto/Tatsumi Kanji, Referenced: Togo Hifumi, Slice of Life, The Phantom Thieves - Freeform, There is a lot of real world references, There is sex in 1 chapter, Third Person Limited, Vaginal Sex, and there was only one bed, but i figured folks who ship Makoto/Akira might like it so here it is, i also wrote this before the Forest Hills renovation got finished so that isn't accounted for either, it's missing literally 1 chapter and i just Cannot, not my best writing but i hope someone likes it, one joke and that sweet Makoto/Akira romance aawwww yissssss, possibly out of character but i tried, writing something EXTREMELY Boston-local was half the point, you know what is accounted for? the P5 concept art book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Refkins/pseuds/Shibsae
Summary: In which The Phantom Thieves are a dance troupe in Boston, MA, USA. Akira Kurusu joins their group, and he and Makoto discover they have chemistry."Predictably, Ryuji had forgotten to tell Makoto when their new member’s first day would be, and so the time before practice that Makoto normally spent eating dinner she instead spent making photocopies of their welcome kit—which she’d designed—and helping Anne and Yusuke hang a welcome banner that Futaba had decided to throw together. As Yusuke began trying to “correct” the banner, getting into an argument with Futaba in the process, Makoto left her teammates to their antics in favor of sneaking in a few bites of a Starbucks parfait. The Dance Complex didn’t allow non-water foodstuffs into its practice spaces, which was understandable, so she huddled outside Studio 2, despite it being situated on a landing in a stairwell."
Relationships: Kurusu Akira/Niijima Makoto
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Rank 1: The Priestess

Predictably, Ryuji had forgotten to tell Makoto when their new member’s first day would be, and so the time before practice that Makoto normally spent eating dinner she instead spent making photocopies of their welcome kit—which she’d designed—and helping Anne and Yusuke hang a welcome banner that Futaba had decided to throw together. As Yusuke began trying to “correct” the banner, getting into an argument with Futaba in the process, Makoto left her teammates to their antics in favor of sneaking in a few bites of a Starbucks parfait. The Dance Complex didn’t allow non-water foodstuffs into its practice spaces, which was understandable, so she huddled outside Studio 2, despite it being situated on a landing in a stairwell.

According to Ryuji, he’d found Akira Kurusu in one of the hip-hop classes he TA-ed for. His new student impressed him with an unusual level of skill for a presumed novice, and Kurusu, despite a seemingly reserved demeanor, had clicked almost instantly with Ryuji’s affable, if unruly, disposition. Ryuji and Kurusu maintained a strong and ever-deepening friendship for three months before Futaba realized that the “Akira” Ryuji kept talking about was _her_ Akira.

“He’s the son of a friend of my dad’s,” she’d said, once she made the connection, “which makes him kind of like a cousin? But we actually lived together in high school so maybe more like a brother?”

With both Futaba and Ryuji vouching for Kurusu, the remaining Phantom Thieves agreed to offer him an audition—which Makoto had missed due to a work. Her teammates unanimously voted to add Kurusu to the Phantom Thieves dance group, and as Makoto trusted them, it was so. Still, she had some reservations about this man she’d yet to meet. There were odd variations in each member’s description of Kurusu, and they all trusted him completely with startling speed. It sounded almost like he’d adjusted his personality to fit better with each of theirs, at least on a one-on-one basis, and that raised alarms for Makoto.

Ryuji and Kurusu found her trying not to get yogurt on her shirt while she squatted beside the studio door. Makoto’s first impression of Kurusu was one of sharp intellect. He came up chuckling at some joke Ryuji had told, but he directly met Makoto’s eyes just before he and Ryuji were in greeting range. Despite the thick-rimmed glasses partially obscuring his face, the intensity of his gaze shocked Makoto—but only for a moment. The sensation of slicing analysis had gone almost as soon as Makoto processed it, replaced by an amiable smile and a casual posture. The man gave the impression of being well-put-together, despite wearing athletic clothing, and Makoto couldn’t tell if his hair was messy or painstakingly styled to look that way.

Ryuji greeted Makoto loudly and introduced her to Kurusu. A static, agitated feeling lingered in the air for her, but it no longer had a clear source.

In his excitement, Ryuji had introduced Makoto as ‘Queen.’ She extended her hand to Kurusu. “Makoto Niijima,” she said. “Queen’s my character in the Thieves.”

“Glad to meet you,” Kurusu said. The handshake was firm, but by no means overpowering, and she noticed some callous in his hand.

“I hope the commute here wasn’t too bad?” she said, starting to put away the half-finished parfait.

“You should finish that, Queen!” Ryuji said. She demurred, but the two men insisted, and Kurusu forced her hand by determining to wait outside with her while she finished her paltry dinner, like a gentleman. Ryuji laughed about it, but obediently—when did that ever happen?—made his way into Studio 2, yelling his greetings to the others as he did.

“Not bad at all,” Kurusu answered, as if there had been no interruption to their small talk. “Ryuji and the others have talked about you a lot. They think highly of their leader.”

This was a puzzling statement. Makoto hadn’t particularly thought of the team as having an opinion of her, much less a positive one. Moreover, she hadn’t been thinking of herself as the leader—the “Queen” name had been an affectionate joke referencing her tendency to take charge, yes, but within herself Makoto saw this as an inability to relinquish control, more than leadership. She glanced at Kurusu in some surprise and saw the sharpness there again—or was he smug? She blinked, and his expression seemed again to convey only an intent to be pleasant.

Befuddled, she waved off the compliment, if that was what it was. “I just like things to be organized. And, you know, someone has to keep things moving.”

He grinned ambiguously.

She downed the rest of the parfait quickly, exchanging polite getting-to-know-you questions with Kurusu like they were volleying a tennis ball. She kept getting the impression that she _amused_ him somehow, which was annoying but not unfamiliar. She remembered having similarly charged exchanges with Goro, when they’d first gotten to know one another in college. Always polite but still biting, those early conversations had been the result of a mutual intellect which spoke between the conversation’s lines with the voice of inference and deduction.

On entering the studio, the welcome banner made Kurusu smile. In Makoto’s short absence, Yusuke had filled much of the blank space with charming, stylized depictions of a tuxedo cat made up to resemble a cat burglar.

“Is that Morgana?” Kurusu laughed.

Yusuke flourished a hand toward the banner. “Yes! I recalled his fantastic feline form from the photos you shared, and I was inspired. A mascot! We have too long been without a friendly face to entice the less erudite denizens of our audiences to our performances and—”

“Morgana’s his cat,” Futaba informed Makoto, sidling up to her as Yusuke further expounded on the virtues of this proposed mascot. A pale index finger poked from Futaba’s oversized jacket to indicate Kurusu. “Total cat person. Shows off pics just ‘cause, lol.”

Haru managed to reel Yusuke’s enthusiasm in and, clapping her hands together, drew the group’s attention. “Welcome to the Phantom Thieves, Akira,” she said, adopting the pleasant but authoritative tone she’d developed for handling the board of Okumura Foods. “I’m sure Ryuji and Futaba have told you all about us, but perhaps a review is in order. Makoto?”

While Ann led them all in warm-up stretches, Makoto embarked on an explanation of their group.

“The Phantom Thieves are, as you know, a Boston-based dance team active in both street performances and competitions. Three years ago, Ryuji, Ann, myself, and a former member founded the group, but we’ve expanded substantially since then. After our first year, we developed a small, local following.”

“We’re no Keytar Bear, but we’ve got some fans,” Ryuji added with a grin.

Makoto went on, “We set our sights on becoming a competitive team about a year ago, participating in two competitions. We currently have one bronze and one gold.

“As a performance group, we endeavor to not only provide high quality dance performances but also to excite the audience with mystery and narrative. Each team member performs under an alias, which represents a character. Narratively, the Phantom Thieves are a collection of master thieves who steal the malintent of would-be evildoers. We of course also steal the hearts of our audiences.”

“And treasure!” Futaba called out, earning a chuckle from the rest of the team.

“And sometimes we, narratively, steal treasure,” Makoto agreed. “At the moment we’re working on a series of performances based on famous thieves from history and literature, through which we hope to weave a narrative of righteous rebellion in the face of uncompromising greed and antipathy. You can read more about the story and the characters in the welcome kit we put together for you.”

“We still gotta find a character for you,” Ryuji said, clapping a hand on Kurusu’s shoulder.

Makoto nodded. “We’ve very loosely talked about how a new character might fit in, but I’m sure you have ideas of your own. What we’d like to do is spend a few practices together before addressing the narrative pieces, so we can all find a rhythm as a group of seven, rather than six.”

“That works for me,” Kurusu said.

“Great!” Ann said. “Is there anything else?”

“Rules,” said Futaba.

“All of the Dance Complex rules and our rules are in the packet, but to stress the most important ones: No street shoes or non-water food items in the studios. No real names in official Phantom Thieves socials. We also generally try to keep our plans for future performances a secret. Hm, is there anything else…? Oh, of course there’s—”

A collective groan ran through the other established members of the group, and Makoto’s brow furrowed.

“Really, Niijima?” Ryuji grumbled. “You’re still gonna insist on that? It’s been _years_ , dude.”

“It’s a reasonable rule!”

“It is not!” Ryuji spat back. “The thing with Goro wasn’t that bad. Anyway, it’s not like there’s big stakes here. We just do this shit for fun!”

“Sorry, Makoto, but Ryuji’s right. For once,” Ann said. “Let’s just drop it.”

“The last rule is no relationships among the members of the Phantom Thieves,” Makoto snapped, getting the words out in a rush. Ann looked away in obvious irritation, and Ryuji rolled his eyes. The reactions of the others were not much better. “It may be ‘for fun,’” Makoto went on, “but we _do_ take this seriously, and it’d be a shame to let something petty ruin it.”

Somewhere in the course of this exchange, one of Kurusu’s eyebrows had raised into his bangs. He’d stopped smiling—the first time anything approaching displeasure had crossed his face so far. Whatever he thought, he chose not to voice, instead simply acknowledging what had been said with a nod.

Haru alleviated the acrid taste in the air with the statement, “Let’s welcome Akira to the team!”

Grateful for the shift in atmosphere, they formally welcomed Kurusu to the Phantom Thieves, furnishing him with several pieces of less-than-professionally produced merchandise bearing the logo Yusuke had designed for them.

From there, the team began their practice in earnest, spending the first half of their remaining time working on a group piece and teaching Kurusu its moves. Incorporating a seventh required some modifications to the choreography, and when they could focus no more on that piece, they switched to individual pieces. Without a solo piece to work on, Kurusu joined Futaba, learning her choreography and helping her polish it. He had an unusual knack for that kind of work, which Futaba seemed to expect, and Makoto could see how they had a sibling-like relationship in the way their mutual affection led to a tacit support that mostly looked like continuous ribbing and bickering. It made Makoto wonder why Futaba hadn’t thought to draft Kurusu into the Phantom Thieves earlier.

They reserved twenty minutes at the end of their allotted time to wind down and discuss issues facing the team as an organization. Characters, narrative, and upcoming competitions were all on the table for discussion. After they’d talked over the fall competition and walked through the social media pushes that would go out that month, Yusuke resurfaced the topic of the team rules.

“It bears discussion,” he pressed. “Your decisions are sound, Makoto, and we trust you, but in this you may be allowing your personal feelings to outweigh your good judgment. I think it is fair to say that we would all prefer to abolish that commandment—isn’t it reasonable to do so?”

Makoto felt the crack of her jaw clenching. Her previously calm thoughts evaporated, leaving behind only the absolute conviction that the last rule must stand. “I understand that there’s some frustration with a commitment that doesn’t appear to serve a purpose. However, I remind you all that it _has_ protected our project here before. We considered Hifumi for membership until your relationship began—and that ended poorly in the end. Wouldn’t you say it’s better that she didn’t join the Thieves?”

Yusuke flinched, and Makoto immediately regretted her words.

“Makoto, that’s not fair!” Ann admonished.

“Hey, that was uncalled for!” Ryuji said in the same moment.

Makoto blushed. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I—didn’t think.”

Ryuji snorted and mumbled something Makoto didn’t catch, while Yusuke attempted to smooth things over, accepting the apology and entreating the others to do the same. Makoto, too ashamed to raise her gaze from the floor, apologized several more times, and in the end the Phantom Thieves departed from the Dance Complex in an uncomfortable mood. It would pass, Makoto knew, but anxiety held greater sway than knowledge in that moment, and she found herself on the street, compulsively apologizing to Kurusu for such an unprofessional end to his first session with them.

He bent down to get his face in her line of sight, startling her and thus forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You’re hard on yourself, aren’t you?” he observed in a neutral tone. His demeanor had changed, now that they stood alone save for the other night owls meandering Cambridge’s streets.

Always, Boston and its surrounding cities were more beautiful at night, and the early spring promise of warmth and growth to come—soft buds on the trees, halogen orange on the edges from the street lights—suffused the night with a sense of unreality. Part of it was that Central at night felt risky to Makoto, whether or not it actually was. Something about the specific amount of people still out suggested that there were too few people to offer protection against the unthinkable, and too many to recommend that the unthinkable wouldn’t happen. Nearby, a parked cruiser’s lights turned the area blue and red, but no siren sounded. It felt ominous, but at the same time it reminded her of college—of late nights leaving parties more tipsy than wise, the streetlights blurring with the giddy feeling of being alive and independent.

“You said something you shouldn’t have,” Kurusu continued, “but I think if you take a closer look, you’ll see it’s already forgiven. You misspoke. That’s all. That’s human.”

To this Makoto had nothing to say.

Kurusu had said that much with an air of gravitas, but his aspect returned to benign friendliness as he asked where she was headed, his intent to escort her to wherever it was apparent in the tone of the question.

“Uh—the Green Street Garage. It’s just down this street. I drive to work, so…”

“Let me walk you. There’s still time before the T stops running.”

She suspected he’d added this latter to ward off any protests, but she actually had none. She used that garage due to its proximity to the Dance Complex, not because it instilled in her a sense of safety. She’d felt at risk a couple of times, making her way out of practice. Her keys always bristled between her knuckles, years of martial arts providing a cushion of optimistic safety between her and the men who leered at her as she passed. For no clear reason, in Kurusu’s company she had none of the apprehension that dogged any woman left alone with an unfamiliar man. Why?

As they rounded a corner, two men who had catcalled Makoto before came into view, loitering near the garage. They looked Makoto’s way, a predatory cast to their posture, but on sighting Kurusu—who to his credit not only noticed them but sidled closer to Makoto in a subtle but definitively protective gesture—lost interest and looked away, blandly bored. Kurusu walked with her right up to her motorcycle. She thanked him for the escort, and then her simmering anxiety got the better of her.

Briefly, an image of the two men attacking Kurusu in retaliation flashed through her mind. It was fundamentally absurd—her mind catastrophizing and nothing more—but now that the idea was there, she wouldn’t be able to shake it. “Um, would you like a ride home? My apartment is basically half an hour away from everything, so it’s not really an inconvenience.”

The offer surprised him. “Are you sure? I’m out in J.P.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. I’m still only twenty or thirty minutes from there. Really, it’s no problem.”

“But you’re riding a motorcycle.”

She laughed. “I’m stronger than I look, I promise.” She unlocked one of the saddle bags—all of her bike’s compartments had locks—and pulled out a motorcycle helmet. It wasn’t a full visor, but it was RMV-approved. “I always keep an extra helmet on hand,” she explained. “I’m not sure if it’ll fit. It was originally sized for my sister.”

The helmet didn’t fit as well as it should have, but it was good enough to use, sliding around Kurusu’s head only if he really shook it. Makoto settled on the bike first, bringing the engine to life and backing out of her parking space before allowing Kurusu to hop on. Her bike, which she’d affectionately named Johanna, was rather heavy—it was meant to handle multi-hour trips at highway speeds—but she not only was strong enough to handle it, even with the added weight of a second body, but she was also a highly experienced rider. She’d gotten her motorcycle license at eighteen and had ridden every day the weather had allowed since.

Kurusu proved fairly light—not all that different from Haru, who’d gone on a handful of rides with Makoto. His height put him at an awkward vantage, but the bike’s passenger seat had a strap which allowed passengers to hold on without needing to grab the driver or upsetting the bike’s balance. Makoto verbally walked him through some safety tips, as he was wholly unfamiliar with proper motorcycling behavior, and did a couple of loops through the garage to give him time to get used to the movement and shifting his weight responsively. Satisfied with his progress, Makoto paid at the exit’s booth and left the garage, flying past the still idling catcallers with a defiant roar of Johanna’s engine, swiftly losing herself in the night air, the physical rumble of the bike on pavement, and the peculiar, captivating sparkle of a small city at night.

Whenever she rode Johanna, Makoto did not think. Or rather, she thought only of the road, and that was not an emotional thing to consider. Her body knew the maneuvers in its muscles, and her mind performed all of the necessary safety checks and processes with full attention, sparing minimal focus only for the sensation of flight that the motorcycle provided. The continuous _thinking—_ the unyielding analysis and worry and prediction and buzzing which was both her blessing and curse—finally quieted, and for the length of the ride she simply existed. No more, and no less than that.

Although she’d felt Kurusu’s weight on the bike throughout the ride, it was not until they reached J.P. that she acknowledged him again, asking for specific directions to his apartment while idling at the entrance to a rotary near the Arborway. With his description, she realized she knew the place well enough to picture it—she’d lived in Boston for too long now, and moved too many times, to be unfamiliar with the layout of Jamaica Plain. Kurusu’s one-bedroom apartment—which was in a basement—lay in one of the townhouses situated between Forest Hills station and the rotary at which they now idled.

Makoto found the place with ease, rolling to a stop by the sidewalk. She didn’t turn the engine off as Kurusu got off of the bike, and she made her farewells from there—it was loud, but firing the bike back up was more likely to wake the neighbors.

“Thanks for the ride,” he called over the roar. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, actually.”

She laughed. “I’m glad I could convert you to our way of life. Ryuji added you to the group chat, right?”

“No, but Ann did.” He laughed. “See you in a week?”

“Of course.”

After watching him get inside, Makoto took off for her own apartment.


	2. Rank 2: Confidante

Kurusu had been right. All was forgiven before the next practice arrived, each Phantom Thief becoming absorbed in the all-encompassing minutiae of daily life. With the exception of Futaba, who had taken many leaves of absence from M.I.T. and thus not graduated yet; Kurusu, who seemed to work a mishmash of part-time gigs; and Haru, who owned a house and worked as a CEO which seemed more like a lifestyle than a job, all of the team’s members held full-time jobs, rented apartments with roommates, and grappled with various other obligations, good and bad. A single poorly judged comment, quickly recanted, lacked the impact it might have had in high school, or even college. Nonetheless, when they met again, Makoto agreed to reconsider the last rule—but only after they settled everything regarding Kurusu’s membership and introduction to their audience. One thing at a time, Makoto argued. It wasn’t the answer the team wanted, but they seemed to accept it as progress.

After Kurusu’s fourth practice, they scheduled a special, non-practice meeting to work out the final details surrounding Kurusu’s proposed character. They met at Haru’s house, after a complexity of carpools and rideshare services which saw Makoto and Ann arriving together. Makoto found Haru’s house fascinating. The rooms nearest the door were all minimalist, almost devoid of personality. Gray and beige, they served a corporate purpose by giving Haru the space she needed to entertain important clients and business partners from a position of generosity and perceived sincerity, which helped her secure essential deals and connections. Beyond those doors, however, lay an overabundance of voluptuous house plants, each as fluffy as Haru’s hair, all clambering for attention among a cacophony of mixed knick-knacks and giddy color. It was to these brighter rooms that the Phantom Thieves absconded, Futaba producing a projected, digital whiteboard for their notes.

“Joker,” Kurusu declared. “Representing the spirit of rebellion.”

Ryuji immediately loved that idea, but Futaba had concerns. “Isn’t that too close to Skull’s thing?”

“We could push it a different way,” Ann suggested. “We do that with some of the other characters.”

“So they’re both like ‘fuck the man,’ but Skull’s like ‘Do the right thing’ and Joker’s more like… uh…” Ryuji started.

“‘Question the status quo.’ I think that would work,” Makoto half-mumbled. The phrase appeared on the digital whiteboard, and Futaba circled it several times.

“That makes sense for Akira,” Futaba decided, grinning. As this made no particular sense to anyone else, she explained after a beat, “The reason he lived with me and my dad is he got in trouble with The Law.”

“Wasn’t planning on talking about that, Futaba,” Kurusu said in a tone only an exasperated brother could produce.

“’K, but now we gotta know,” Ryuji urged. “Bring out the skeletons, man!”

Kurusu rolled his eyes but obliged, albeit in a tone so apathetic as to bely the pain behind his words. “I saw a senator assault a woman, and I decked him. This was in high school. She ran, he called the cops, I got arrested. In court, it was a mess. The senator spent a lot of money keeping the whole thing quiet, the victim got subpoenaed into testifying and tried to avoid accusing the senator of anything without completely throwing me under the bus, which went about as well as you’d expect, and I was a minor. In the end, my family settled and got hit with a pile of debt, but I didn’t wind up in juvie. Between the debt and the rumors circulating around school, my parents decided it’d be better to get me out of ‘the locus of intrigue,’ and Sojiro offered to look after me. I stayed with the Sakuras until graduation, basically. After that, I started working to pay off the rest of the settlement. We cleared the debt two years ago, I moved to Boston around then, and the senator’s still a senator.”

Shocked silence met Kurusu’s tale, which Ryuji broke by all but shouting a profane exclamation, followed by a helpless, “That fucking sucks, man.”

Kurusu shrugged. “It’s old news. I just don’t like to talk about it. Spent too long trying to get out of the situation, y’know?”

“Totally, totally.”

“Um, if you don’t mind… the senator…” Haru began.

“Suppose I tell you who it was,” Kurusu replied, “what will you do?”

“Well not _vote_ for him, for one thing.”

“Will that be enough?”

“What do you mean?”

“He means if word of it spread, and the senator can trace it back to him, he’s going to have a lot more to deal with than that debt,” Makoto said.

“And the victim,” Kurusu added. “This is her story to tell, in my opinion, not mine. If she ever comes forward, I’ll back her, but until then I’m not putting either of us at risk.”

“Are you in touch with her?” Ann asked.

“No.”

Another silence fell, and this one Makoto breached. “The spirit of rebellion: Joker. Why ‘Joker’?”

“It’s the wild card,” Kurusu said with a slice of a grin. Makoto wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“Should Joker’s story incorporate an element of Akira’s?” Yusuke asked. “If Joker is rebellion incarnate, he will need something to rebel against. Why not a corrupt government? Too topical?”

“Yes, but it’s never _not_ topical,” Makoto replied, analyzing the angles as she spoke. “I’d suggest we take pains not to reference real-world figures, particularly given Kurusu’s situation, but in the abstract I think it works.”

“Oligarchy versus democracy?” Kurusu riffed. “Classism as a tool of those in power?” He shrugged. “I’m open to ideas, but I like the idea of a solo piece based on Arséne Lupin.”

That idea had legs, and the Phantom Thieves workshopped it for quite some time. They decided to proceed with the broad ideas laid out so far—Joker, rebellion, Arséne—and took their time hashing out both the details and how to fit the new character into the existing Phantom Thieves narrative.

“We still need to explain how Joker got here,” Futaba sighed. “What changed? Why do we want him?”

“What if… we hunt him?” Makoto mused.

“What, like he’s a target?” Ryuji sat up, intrigued.

“Something like that. Maybe the Thieves get a tip that there’s some vigilante running around doing who knows what. So they track him down only to find out that, hey, he’s doing what _we’re_ doing. And we recruit him.”

“And then Joker brings in new info that leads everyone to the bad guy who’s been secretly pulling the strings behind the scenes all along. Bam! Climax,” Ann piled on.

“Something otherworldly?” Futaba warbled in a spooky voice.

“No, no, that would be gauche,” said Yusuke. “A social ill, like corruption or… apathy.”

“You want us to fight apathy,” Ryuji repeated in a flat tone.

Yusuke seemed surprised at the audible skepticism. “Why not? We steal hearts, no?”

“Not literally!”

“I think Yusuke’s on to something,” Haru put in. “What if the Phantom Thieves realize that apathy and malintent are similar and so they steal the apathy right out of the audience? Then the audience helps us fix the social problems from our stories up to then?”

“But then what do we do afterward?” Ann asked. “I don’t want to write ourselves into ending the group.”

“Greatest hits?” quipped Futaba.

“Evolution,” suggested Kurusu. “The motives and message shift, so the stories do too.” It was a solid thought, but they didn’t resolve the question that day. With enough to go on to plan Joker’s introduction and choreograph pieces for the character, the meta plot could wait.

They nominated a task force to create the first draft of the new choreography they needed. They broke the Joker introduction into two parts, one for introducing the character, and another for adding him to the Phantom Thieves; Futaba pointed out it would be “good for our views, lol.” Futaba, Ann, and Yusuke volunteered to come up with a first take on the performance that would introduce Joker to the audience at large. Haru and Ryuji agreed to take the second piece on, while Kurusu and Makoto fleshed out a first version of the Arséne Lupin piece he had proposed.

Their business thus concluded, the Phantom Thieves switched into hang out mode, passing the remainder of the day in camaraderie. An extended game of _Mario Kart_ spun up, with Futaba resoundingly defeating everyone in the room, and slowly they broke off into smaller groups, sliding in and out of activities with the habitual ease of close friends. That Kurusu fit so well into their collective friendship surprised Makoto only a little—watching him interact with the others put his many personas on display, illuminating which elements of his behavior were adjustments made for the benefit of positive social interaction, and which bits were genuinely himself.

He and Ryuji were bros—rowdy and always laughing, sharing a fierce and instinctive affection. Ryuji opened up to Kurusu easily, as far as Makoto could tell, but this easy rapport provided a scaffolding from which the casual jubilance that defined their connection hung.

With Futaba, Kurusu was simply a big brother. He teased her, and vice versa, but the protective instinct toward her was clear. Similarly, Futaba saw through him in a cutting way unique to family, allowing her to call him out and force him to face his problems head on.

With Ann, Kurusu became simply a patient and validating sounding board. Theirs was a friendship founded on that kind of “girl talk” exchange. Ann brought forth her concerns and dramas, and Kurusu gave her reassurance, advice, and the precious feeling of being heard. What precisely Kurusu received in turn, Makoto couldn’t tell, but his engagement seemed genuine, as if something about the stories Ann told in haphazard jumbles and sprawling thoughts gave him an insight he otherwise would have lacked. Perhaps something about her emotional intelligence? Or maybe an intuitive attraction?

In Yusuke’s company, Kurusu’s intellect engaged. He listened to Yusuke’s flowery dissertations at length and bandied ideas back and forth with him. It was a creative exchange that Yusuke no longer received outside of choreographing new pieces with the Thieves. Makoto also detected a side of Yusuke she’d rarely seen prior—a softness and vulnerability that Kurusu drew out of him with the careful and, she was certain, intentional application of firm support. Seeing it made Makoto glad—this subdued Yusuke lacked none of his bombastic flavor but seemed more at peace than was his wont.

Haru prompted Kurusu to provide a hard kind of advice that somewhat reminded Makoto of Sae, but less harsh. It wasn’t unkind—he still smiled and made Haru laugh—but he seemed to say bluntly the things Haru needed to hear, thoughts she’d already had but was reluctant to meet directly. Kurusu simply put them in front of her in clear terms, with no judgment, and in doing so, gave Haru the permission she sought to own those ideas herself, which was interesting. Haru had learned to inhabit such a strong persona as a CEO, but she’d long harbored doubts and insecurity beneath the surface.

Makoto turned her attention back to the current lap in _Mario Kart_ , less taking in the game and more contemplating wordlessly what she had so far noted. Kurusu had drawn the vulnerability of each of her teammates out, centering that vulnerability in his connection to them. She could see how he’d done it, but not how it could be replicated. More troublingly, she couldn’t parse his motive for the behavior.

A shift in weight on the couch drew Makoto out of her reverie. Turning, her eyes met Kurusu’s and again she experienced a piercing moment, like an electrical wire had sprung to life beneath her fingers. As before, the impression vanished within a breath, Kurusu’s energy once more only affable, harmless, pleasant. A memory of Sae passed like a cloud over Makoto’s mind, and she wondered if Kurusu had been reading her face. Or perhaps all of their faces?

“So when’s our next ride?” he asked cheerfully.

Was that charming or irritating? Well, no matter. She’d play. “Whenever you’re free,” she said. “My schedule’s typically a mess, though.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket in a smooth motion that briefly sent it airborne, flipping upright as it landed in his hand. It was a ridiculous gesture that undoubtedly had required a silly amount of practice to achieve. A tuxedo cat with lively blue eyes and a yellow collar appeared on the lock screen, prompting an involuntary squeak from Makoto.

Kurusu grinned and tilted the phone toward her. “Morgana—my cat. He’s troublesome, but cute.”

“Like you?” Makoto thought, commenting aloud only on how adorable Morgana plainly was.

“You should meet him,” Kurusu said. “Maybe we could go for a ride on Saturday, and then you can stop in to pet a cat?”

Makoto’s calendar damningly revealed a four-hour block of free time on Saturday morning, and Kurusu proved perfectly happy to rise early for a two-wheeled jaunt out of J.P. and into Blue Hills. Further, he promised to get a proper helmet of his own for the occasion.

“That’s expensive,” Makoto protested, but he dismissed her concerns, his mind made up.

The outing entered her calendar with resignation, and a happy Kurusu hopped right on to the next topic—as though running down an agenda—which was of course when to meet to choreograph the Arséne piece. Neither Makoto’s nor Kurusu’s residences offered sufficient dance space, much less a sizeable mirror, so Kurusu noted down Makoto’s free evenings, taking over the task of renting space.

“Okay, that’s schedules. Thank you for your patience, coach,” Kurusu teased.

The moniker caught Makoto offguard and she chuckled. “I’d say Futaba’s more like our coach. You’re certainly giving her some competition for the position, though.”

“Oh, rare praise!”

“I’m serious. You learn fast, and your technical skill is impressive. And you keep helping everyone out. It’s really energized the team.”

Kurusu thanked her for the compliment with a layer of sincerity that brought a faint pink to her cheeks.


	3. Rank 3: Erudite

Kurusu had been as good as his word. Not only had he secured a studio rental time that worked with Makoto’s packed schedule, but he had also procured a motorcycle helmet—one with a full visor. It had racing stripes down the sides in Morgana’s colors, which seemed an after-market addition—perhaps of Yusuke’s doing. The rest of his attire was motorcycle-appropriate but not specialized—denim, tall boots, and a leather jacket which Makoto recognized as belonging to Ryuji.

When Kurusu came close enough for Makoto’s voice to carry over the engine, she called, “Thinking of getting your license already?”

“It’s exciting,” he retorted. His glasses were nowhere in evidence, impressing upon Makoto how much they disguised his features, almost as if they were meant as a mask. Somehow, their absence brought forward the intensity Makoto had occasionally sensed from Kurusu, as well as a layer of mischief. The transition brought to mind Clark Kent and Superman, if Superman were a trickster spirit rather than an all-American ideal. Futaba had said rebellion conceptually suited Kurusu, and now Makoto could see how apt that was in his carriage.

They took off down 203, following it as it changed names, and turned onto MA-28S when they came upon it. When Blue Hills Parkway materialized, they followed it until it became Unquity Road, which took them into the Blue Hills Reservation itself. Hordes of visitors flooded the main roads and attractions, bicyclists thick on the shoulders, and Makoto kept her speed moderate as they traversed the roads that wound through Blue Hills. She’d ridden the area multiple times before, and so took them looping throughout the area, attempting to show Kurusu as much of the reserve as she could from a motorcycle.

Coming to the end of their tour, she rode down Chickatawbut Road and pulled to a stop at the tiny parking lot meant for hikers looking to visit Chickatawbut Observation Tower. Picnic benches stood in the grass by the parking spaces and, on the opposite side of the street, straggled partway into the woods and up the hill toward the tower. Boston’s skyline sat among haze in the far distance, visible from the parking lot’s stone wall that protected visitors from falling down the hill. Kurusu was delighted by all of this—Blue Hills was new to him.

Makoto produced a modest packed lunch from one of Johanna’s saddlebags, for which Kurusu was grateful, and they ate at the benches, where they could see Boston over the treetops. They passed ideas for the Arséne piece back and forth while they ate, and when they’d finished, Kurusu convinced Makoto to head up to the observation tower. It was hot for spring, so Makoto stowed as much of her cycling gear as she could in Johanna’s saddlebags before they began the climb uphill, to the tower.

They weren’t equipped for a hike, but the distance was entirely manageable, albeit in a sweaty, puffing fashion. The tower itself was surprisingly short, and of an advanced age. It was also, disappointingly, locked, but they nonetheless looked around the area, examining the old structure before deciding to return to the bike. A light rain began as they descended, pattering through the trees’ leaves and sending a few hikers and their children squealing into their cars, which soon left. Doomed to wetness, Makoto and Kurusu maintained a relaxed pace, matching the other’s footfalls despite their height discrepancy.

Makoto stole a glance at Kurusu, a prickle of social anxiety demanding that she confirm that he was enjoying himself. His usually fluffy, unkempt hair had taken on the rain with a sponge’s enthusiasm; the waves hung heavy and dripping over his face. His dark gray eyes watched the ground before him and a soft smile brought a tranquility to his expression that seemed, to Makoto, to belong there. He met her eyes, and she nearly missed her footing, which made him laugh once he’d confirmed she was fine. Embarrassed, Makoto picked up the pace, reaching Johanna as the rain shifted from soft but steady rhythms to sheets of fat, drenching droplets. She and Kurusu quickly put their gear back on and hopped onto the rain-slick motorcycle.

“Wrap up as much bare skin as you can,” she advised him. “Whatever rain hits you will sting.”

She’d planned to finish their ride with an adrenaline-boosting shot down the nearby highway, traffic allowing, but in deference to the weather, she instead took much the same route they’d come by, pulling up to the curb in front of Kurusu’s building just shy of a half-hour later. A driveway adjoined the building, and it was partially sheltered by the roof of a garage. With the permission of Kurusu’s neighbor, Makoto parked Johanna in that lee. Her phone’s weather app indicated a short-lived rain, but the evidence of the skies seemed to suggest otherwise.

The entrance to Kurusu’s basement apartment lay on the side of the building, set below ground level within a short concrete stairwell. Makoto had intended to make an excuse and skip visiting his home, but now the prospect of a dry place to wait out the rain beckoned her in, so she followed Kurusu inside.

His tuxedo cat met them at the door with an imperious yowl. The cat leapt up to a desk and onto Kurusu’s shoulder before hopping lightly to a carpeted ramp installed near the ceiling along all the walls of the apartment’s central living space. Plainly, the feature was meant for the cat.

Makoto was less soaked through than Kurusu, as her gear had kept the clothes beneath dry, so while he disappeared into his bedroom to change, Makoto greeted Morgana, offering a hand for him to sniff before scratching behind his ears. Being damp, she didn’t dare sit anywhere, but Morgana happily hopped into her arms and so Makoto stood in the midst of Kurusu’s surprisingly tidy space, holding and petting the cat. Kurusu returned in an overlarge long-sleeve and a pair of athletic pants he’d occasionally worn to practices. His glasses had returned.

“Do you like coffee?” he asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The tight organization of Kurusu’s space had hidden both the cheap quality of the majority of his belongings and a variety of decidedly not cheap coffee-making apparatuses of near-professional quality, which Kurusu brought forth now. With practiced ease, he produced two lattes, the foam artfully poured to form ribbons of gradation on the coffee’s surface. Impressed with the skill Kurusu had demonstrated, she accepted the proffered mug gratefully, though she was obliged to set Morgana down to do so. She complimented his skill; she’d watched the whole process with some fascination, after all.

“I’ve had a lot of jobs,” Kurusu explained, providing her with a towel. “When I lived with the Sakuras, I also worked in Sojiro’s café. That was the first time I worked as a barista, but not the last. Making coffee is soothing for me.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” His expression asked for elaboration, so she added, “You smell like coffee. Ah, that sounds strange, but you know what I mean?”

He chuckled to put her at ease as he affirmed that he did.

Having dried off as much as she reasonably could, Makoto settled on the futon that served as his couch, occupying the corner opposite him. Morgana jumped into her lap as soon as she sat, purring loudly.

“I see you’ve already befriended Morgana.”

“He’s a charmer, as promised. It’s just you two here?”

“Yep. It’s a bit steep, since the area’s gentrifying quickly. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep renting it, when renewal season rolls around, but it’s been a pleasant, private roost. I’m hoping to get off the September lease cycle if I do move, but we’ll see.”

“I’d recommend it. Sae and I are on a June cycle now. It’s been much less chaotic when we’ve moved.”

“Sae is…?”

“Oh, my older sister. She’s an attorney. While I was in college, we lived separately, but it’s been beneficial to us both, financially, to cohabitate again.”

“Do you not get along?”

“Why do you ask?”

He leaned forward slightly. His eyes were piercing—seeking. “You sounded a bit cold as you said that.”

She set her coffee on the nearby coffee table, careful not to disturb Morgana. “Kurusu, are you able to read micro-expressions?”

He sat up in some surprise, subconsciously increasing the distance between them, or so it seemed to Makoto. “You’re familiar with them?”

“When your sister’s an attorney, you grow up having your thoughts read right off your face. You’ve been doing that—to all of us, I think.” She began to say, “You used it to gain the others’ trust” but held the words back. It was a more combative statement than she wanted to make.

Still, he’d probably already seen it in her face. Something of the cheerful façade he’d been wearing dropped away. “You’re right. Have you learned it, too?”

“Micro-expressions” referred to the tiny, almost imperceptible muscle movements in the human face which add nuance to human expressions. Most people intuitively perceived and interpreted them as part of the unconscious processing of facial expressions. However, by learning to detect and consciously interpret such facial movements, one could gain greater insight into the feelings of those around them, or so the theory went. With a little inference or deduction, these observations could be used to guess others’ thoughts with a reasonably high degree of accuracy, but only if the individual in question was wholly neurotypical and shared the observer’s culture. Even with those limitations, it could be a useful tool for those with reduced ability to intuitively interpret emotion on human faces, and it was also helpful in fields which demanded a high understanding of people.

“I’ve read up on them, but I never learned to read them,” she replied evenly. “What prompted you to learn?”

He looked away, grinning somewhat sheepishly. “It’s useful. I wasn’t good with people in my early life. I just… missed a lot. Couldn’t read a room. Never got diagnosed, but I’m probably on the spectrum somewhere, maybe. When did you notice?”

“I understood something was happening when we met, but I didn’t put together what until we were all at Haru’s the other day. You’ve got a sharp gaze. …To be honest, Kurusu, you put me a bit on edge. I kept feeling, exposed, around you. That’s happened before, though.”

Makoto scratched under Morgana’s collar and continued, “My mother died when I was very young, and my dad passed while I was a teenager. Sae became my guardian, and she gave up a lot of her life to raise me. It wasn’t always… pleasant. For either of us. She learned to read micro-expressions for her work, but she also used the skill on me, regularly. It was almost impossible to maintain a modicum of privacy around her. I eventually learned to regulate my expressions, but there’s only so much you can do. I’m a little sensitive to that kind of observation, as a result. I’m sorry if it sounded like I was attacking you. I can be too suspicious for my own good, sometimes.”

“I could stop doing it to you.”

“I— I don’t know. I think it’s alright. I’d appreciate whatever privacy you could return to me, but, it sounds like it’s something you need, and if it’s something you need, I don’t want to handicap you.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll try to be more sparing with how I do it, though. There’s a fine line between needing a tool and using it just because you can.”

Their conversation turned to lighter matters after that, becoming an amiable chat. When the rain let up, Makoto departed, obtaining a promise from Kurusu to bring coffee when they met to create the new choreography.


	4. Rank 4: Dauntless

Several sessions were required to draft the Arséne piece, in the end. More than one creative difference had slowed progress, and for whatever reason, Kurusu had become more mischievous around Makoto, further reducing their productivity. She’d anticipated an increase in genuineness from him after their chat, not impishness.

Their first attempt at drafting was the least pleasant. Halfway through the allotted time, they’d been obliged to stop. Attempting to change the other’s mind as they’d been doing was fruitless, and so the remainder of that meeting became a process planning session, hashing out a systematic approach for their working relationship. In the second session, Kurusu arrived in a playful mood. They’d been able to make good progress, but distraction abounded as Kurusu’s good humor infected the space and got the both of them into giggle fits. While not as productive as hoped, Makoto had enjoyed the meeting.

In this, the third, Makoto felt about ready to plop Kurusu into a rocket and shoot that rocket into the sun. Smirking and overflowing with troublemaking energy, he had become possessed by an idea—elaboration on the metaphorical stealing of hearts, in all its transmutations. Would it not be perfect to conclude a Joker-centric number with the theft of a heart? Kurusu had insisted, providing idea after half-baked idea of what that could mean. Already, Makoto had talked him out of tacky props, last-minute villains, dramatic reversals, and lust-riddled diversions.

“You can’t steal a member’s heart,” she said in her firmest voice.

“Because of the last rule?” he quipped, but there was some bite to it. His grin was like a slash through his face, his eyes, unobscured by spectacles, sparkling with wickedness.

“Because it makes no narrative sense,” she retorted. “We can’t just abandon established canon. There’s a whole marketing plan!”

He waltzed through the room—literally—as he thought, unconsciously rehearsing a part of Haru’s solo piece that the Phantom Thieves, minus Joker, had performed street-side in Faneuil Hall a few days prior. “How about an audience member?” he suggested.

“What, at random?”

“Sure! Joker pulls off a flustering maneuver and steals their heart, securing a place among the Phantom Thieves.”

“Pretending that’s a good idea, how would you do that?”

“Opportunistically! Maybe there’s space to dip somebody. Maybe there’s something to pin them to. Maybe a flirty wink will do. I look for a target in the early part of the performance and choose accordingly.”

“Kurusu, you can’t just drag strangers into our performances.”

“Why not?”

“Consent is a thing, for one.”

“That makes it sound more dire than it is. Wouldn’t you say you’d had fun if a handsome rogue paid you special attention?” He’d waltzed a full turn through the room and arced back toward Makoto, smiling all the while.

“Oh my god— ‘Paying special attention’ and physically engaging a person without their prior consent are different things. And it doesn’t matter what I think about it, I don’t get to set other people’s boundaries, and neither do you!”

He lunged at her. Startled, Makoto stepped back, hitting the mirrored wall as Kurusu, without touching her at all, pinned her there, one arm pressed to the glass over both their heads, the other hand all too casual in his pocket. The blood sang in Makoto’s ears, her heart ready to climb out of her mouth, and Kurusu bent his head down to her, the gray eyes behind locks of black hair not at all piercing for once, his breath light against her skin, all to ask in a low and gentle voice, “Why don’t you call me ‘Akira’?”

Makoto felt as though her internal power plant had failed and the back-up generators were taking a moment too long to power up. It took her several attempts to stammer out “WHAT are you _doing_?” blushing furiously all the while.

He laughed at that but gave her somewhat more breathing space, though he did not step back or remove his arm from the wall. “It’s always ‘Kurusu,’” he said in a soft voice no longer quite so intimate, “if you say my name at all. Why?”

“I don’t know, it felt right.”

“Meaning impersonal?”

“Will you _move_?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The wickedness returned, the snickering smile almost cruel. “Did Joker steal the Queen’s heart?”

She vocalized a wordless sound of frustration and slipped past him, managing not to make contact. His grin persisted until she reached the studio door at which point distress entered his voice as he called, “Makoto, I’m sorry. That was supposed to be funny or—you’re not leaving?”

“I’m going to the restroom. I’ll be back in a minute,” she snapped. Once in the safety of the Complex’s bathroom, she made use of the facilities—might as well—washed her hands, and splashed water on her face until she felt less like a tomato.

On returning to the studio they’d rented, she found her troublemaking collaborator in a wholly repentant mood. A great many apologies he laid at her feet alongside reassurances that he wouldn’t so much as glance at an audience member. The feeling of being read was back—which of course meant that he _hadn’t_ been reading her face before, which meant he actually _did_ need to do that because that explained where _that_ whole maneuver had come from, and that of course raised the question of why he’d stopped, which in turn brought forward far more questions than Makoto felt able to process at that moment.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You just startled me. Let’s not get hung up on it. I think your idea to add on a flourish is good, but it needs to be something that doesn’t cross into risky territory. Just… risqué territory.”

It was a fairly weak joke, but it worked. His smile came back, the boyish one this time, and they concocted a plan to insert a plant into their audiences—someone Joker could reliably target without safety concerns.

As had become habit, he walked Makoto to the garage when their lease on the space ran out, and she offered him a ride home. Tonight’s was a peaceful one, the evening air no longer quite so cold, due to the arriving summer, and despite the incident in the studio, Makoto found herself in a good enough humor to step into his apartment just long enough to pet Morgana before returning home herself.

At their next group practice, the task forces presented their first drafts for the new, Joker-centric pieces. The piece which introduced Joker as a character turned out fast paced and lively, attempting to capture a full adventure in just a couple of minutes. Stylistically, the Phantom Thieves leaned toward pop and hip-hop styles, taking cues from various nations’ takes on those genres. However, for this piece Futaba, Ann, and Yusuke selected a song rooted in disco, but made modern. They chose to incorporate movements which borrowed from the 70s to match. It was overall a touch too busy, but the core was solid, and perhaps more importantly, fresh.

The piece which covered Joker’s addition to the Phantom Thieves provided a slower tempo, favoring the atmosphere of a spy flick. The music climaxed with a bold brass section, and Haru and Ryuji had planned a mid-air flip for Joker to hit that swell. It was highly dramatic, accentuating a charismatic panache Joker’s dancer had consistently demonstrated during practices, and that drama really worked for it, to Makoto’s surprise. The shortcomings lay in how unevenly the piece used their many group members—Joker had far too much to do compared to the majority of the other characters.

The Arséne piece was a waltz, but its choreography relied primarily on modern dance and pop motifs, rather than ballroom dance. It asked Joker to balance sensuality with sharp movements suggesting his being jerked around the performance area, and it was, in mood, a tense piece with a lonely atmosphere. They’d done their best to accentuate the sense of conflict with the choreography, while making the best use they could of Joker’s acrobatic abilities. To Makoto’s delight, the team loved it. However, they wanted it to end on a less lonely note—to offer hope.

When, several practices later, the Phantom Thieves assessed the second drafts of each piece, they declared the Joining Piece done, the Introductory Piece in need of further revision, and the Arséne Piece complete except for the final measures, as solitude still dominated the choreography. Futaba, Haru, Ryuji, and Yusuke set their sights on repairing the Introductory Piece, but even as this was decided, the full complement of Thieves brainstormed on the Arséne Piece’s final moments. The second draft proposed to bring in several of the team’s members to form a supportive structure. Physically, they would raise Joker, as if lifting him to new heights before placing him back on his feet among them. It didn’t feel particularly Phantom Thief-like.

It was Futaba who suggested evolving the choreography over the course of the song from a solo performance to a duet, and it was Ann who recommended the second dancer be Queen. The now complete Joining Piece utilized Queen as the Thief who invited Joker into the team, and so, Ann argued, it was only logical to use her in this as well, tying the canonical narrative and the deeper exploration of the Joker character together.

“And you look good together,” Ann added. As Makoto startled, Ann realized how her words had sounded and turned very faintly pink. “I mean, like, aesthetically! Er, that’s not right—”

Haru giggled. “The two characters look well together, I think Ann means. I noticed it, too, when you showed the first draft. Your styles are similar in some ways, but mostly complementary.”

“Yes! Thanks, Haru. It looked good on that draft, so maybe we do it on purpose this time?”

Makoto could not think of a single reason to combat this concept, and so creating the next version of “Arséne” fell once more to Makoto and their newest team member, with Ann supervising and assisting. Ann, at least, seemed to have some idea in mind for how to achieve a resolution for the piece, which was good because all Makoto could think of was her co-star asking if Joker had stolen Queen’s heart.


	5. Rank 5: Neither Velvet, Nor a Room

Makoto worked for a nonprofit which investigated failures of the justice system and provided legal counsel, and sometimes representation, to the individuals impacted by those failures. With a family overwhelmingly connected to the judicial system, and a country overwhelmingly hampered by corruption in the same, this career path was Makoto’s method of making good on both histories. Makoto herself acted primarily as an investigator, doing the research and the legwork to untangle what had or had not gone wrong, and picking apart the technicalities and specifics of the laws that might help her organization’s clients.

The needs of the job put her in contact with law enforcement, attorneys and lawyers, court officials, and criminals both convicted and acquitted. Between her ample martial arts training and as many licenses to own weapons as Massachusetts was willing to allow, she operated in relative safety, though fear was always her shadow for safety was never truly guaranteed. Peculiarly, the thing she liked least about her job was not so much wandering into parts of town unwelcoming to her demographic, but how often she wound up running into Goro. Which was stupid, she knew, but that didn’t make it less true.

As a detective in the BPD, and one she had personal connection to, Goro Akechi represented a reliable source of information for Makoto and the organization she represented. Reluctantly, she met with him at least once for nearly every case she took, as his personal ethics around justice were less tied to the police force and more tied to an idealization of the judicial process. He was actively glad to help Makoto’s organization, given their mission, so long as it meant justice was appropriately served.

For her current case, she met him at a pub during the madness of a workday lunch hour, one she’d frequented with her college friends—meaning Ann, Ryuji, and Goro. As always, seeing him sent a spike of pain through her chest. Time had mostly healed the heart he’d broken, but she’d made no effort to date in the aftermath of their relationship; she’d simply lacked the interest.

As always, Goro was the same as he had been in their relationship, or mostly so. Pleasant, prince-like in some ways, with an open face that belied the layers of calculation so deliberately disguised—this was always consistent. He had less admirable qualities, ones she’d come to know well, and she could see them now in a way she hadn’t been able to when they’d dated. But, the greater good had its own demands.

They hadn’t quite finished their meal when they concluded their business, which meant small talk. Goro took to it with a verve that seemed out of place both in the moment and in the habits of behavior they’d established following their break-up.

“How’s the new member working out?” he asked.

She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. It wasn’t a question she’d expected, not in the least because she’d made no mention of the Phantom Thieves, and Joker remained unannounced. How did Goro know there was a new member?

“He’s doing very well,” she said. “He’s very skilled, gets along great with the team. We’re excited to debut his character, when the time comes.”

Goro made a polite but noncommittal noise. “Akira Kurusu, is it?”

His tone as he said the name was too layered for small talk. Likely, she wouldn’t have noticed had she known Goro less well, but she _did_ know him well and she _did_ pick up on it: the question felt faked. He already knew the answer. It was a pretext—he was building to something.

The cold prickle creeping up her neck did not prevent her from confirming that yes, that was his name, but the chill transferred into her gut as Goro followed up with, “Criminal background, that one.”

Makoto answered without thinking. “He was acquitted. Why do you know that?”

Goro merely shrugged and redirected. “It’ll be interesting to see what the Phantom Thieves show at the annual and its qualifiers this year.”

“You’re going to the annual?”

“Of course!” Goro said with a cheerful smile that nonetheless felt to Makoto full of razorblades. “I’ve joined a team. Somewhat similar to the Phantom Thieves, actually, with the characters and narrative and all. We’re much smaller, however.”

“You’re… not still playing Crow, are you?”

Goro laughed at that. “No, of course not. I’m playing Loki now.”

After the lunch, when Makoto flavorlessly relayed the news that Akechi would be competing again to the Phantom Thieves via their group chat, those who had known him reacted about as poorly as she’d expected. Like her, they experienced his decision to join a dance team as a betrayal—salt in the wound of his abrupt departure from the team he’d helped begin. For all that Makoto’s fellow founders had spoken of the break with Akechi as old news, they now railed against him in colorful language while Haru attempted to calm them down. Still, it was better that they find out now, rather than at the first qualifier for the annual.

She muted the chat for most of the workday, disinclined to allow its near continuous buzzing to distract her from her job. When she finally checked it again, scores of messages confirmed that had been the right choice; her phone would have been vibrating off tables had she left notifications on. The group chat did calm down after several tens of messages, the outrage of the team’s founders morphing into something more like a standard rivalry between the Phantom Thieves and Akechi’s unknown team, although they seemed to be motivated by vengeance as much as anything else. Akechi’s break up with Makoto and departure from the team had also severed his friendship with Ann and Ryuji, after all.

Their newest member hadn’t commented on the matter at all, but a pip next to his icon—predictably a picture of Morgana—caught her attention.

> WildCardFool: theres a place called wonderland????
> 
> WildCardFool: in town????
> 
> WildCardFool: ??????????????!!!!!!!!

Makoto sighed. She supposed it had really only ever been a matter of time before this happened, given his relative lack of familiarity with the city and its surrounding areas.

> TheMaidenAnat: It’s not a great place.
> 
> WildCardFool: lets go
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: not a great idea.
> 
> WildCardFool: its called WONDERLAND.
> 
> WildCardFool: i MUST see it
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: It’s really not worth it.
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: trust me on this.

Being a responsible driver, she ignored her phone for the duration of her commute home, and when she put Johanna away and began making her way up the steps to the apartment she shared with Sae, she saw that “not worth it” had not been a convincing argument. The group chat’s topic had shifted to Wonderland, and Ryuji had already taken a shine to his friend’s idea.

> TrackPunk420: @TheMaidenAnat show us wonderland lol

An image of a stylized cat saying “please” with sparkling eyes appeared below, sent from WildCardFool. Before Makoto could formulate a proper answer, new messages appeared.

> Loversinclover: ill go if makoto goes haha
> 
> SonOfSayuri: I have never been to Wonderland.
> 
> SonOfSayuri: I would be interested to see such a place.
> 
> SonOfSayuri: Perhaps it would provide inspiration for my next painting.
> 
> TheFourthMusketeer: Ive never been either.

Another sticker appeared after Haru’s message, this one showing some sort of happy blob creature emitting pastel flowers.

> Alibaba: pass
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: Wonderland is not a nice place.

A bevy of protests answered her, but what got under Makoto’s skin was an accusation of classism from WildCardFool, made lightly. Probably he had sent it _to_ get under her skin, but it bothered her enough that she took the bait anyway. She agreed to go.

On the appointed Saturday, Makoto rode to her usual workday garage and walked over to Government Center to meet the others. They boarded the outbound Blue Line there, and as always the Blue Line failed to match any other subway line the MBTA offered. It was strangely clean. All the other subway cars and stations had seen better days, but the Blue Line looked brand new, unused. And perhaps it _was_ unused because it was also virtually empty. Between the lack of grime or apparent use and the vacancy of the train cars, the whole of the Blue Line felt eerie and liminal.

Those few other passengers that Makoto could see were, in their own rights, peculiar. In the middle of the car was a tall man of indeterminate age wearing an odd blue suit that called to mind a bellhop, or perhaps an elevator attendant. Beside him sat a chatty woman whose white bobbed hair, similar blue clothing, and equally yellow irises suggested that she and the man were siblings. Perhaps they were twins of some sort, but they seemed a bit too old to be wearing matching clothing.

Beyond them sat an odd man with an outrageously long nose, bulging eyes, and a balding head whose remaining hair was reminiscent of a classical composer. He folded gloved hands together, each of his limbs long and thin, and Makoto could not quite shake the sense of the uncanny as she observed him. Equally, he was familiar, but she couldn’t place why.

“Is that _Igor?_ ” Ann whispered.

“Who?” asked the one who’d incited the whole misadventure.

“Igor’s kind of a legend in dance circles around here,” Ann told him. “He came up with a bunch of the local contests, and he’s done a ton for the dance community.”

“Supposedly,” Haru added, “he’s an extremely talented dancer, but he’s apparently quite reclusive. There’s not a lot of footage online.”

“Let’s say hi.”

“Akira, wait—!” Ann hissed, but he’d already sauntered down the car to Igor, surprisingly stable despite the train’s movement.

“HelLOooo,” said Igor in a voice that hardly seemed plausible as anything other than an affectation. “WELcome to the Blue Line train.”

Whatever answer their bold companion gave, Makoto didn’t catch, but it looked like an introduction that not only encompassed himself, but also the rest of their group. His subsequent conversation with Igor lasted three station stops, at one of which an operatic voice and lovingly played keyboard flooded the car when the doors opened. The ethereal, sad quality of the song only deepened the sense that the Phantom Thieves had wandered into a realm outside of the one they knew.

When their companion returned to them, he let them know that Igor knew about their troupe and liked their work. “He offered some advice,” he said.

“What was it?” Ann asked.

“In short, to simplify and then expand. He also talked about ‘the power of the wild card’ and how zero is representative of both nothing and ‘limitless possibilities.’”

“‘Simplify’ seems a bit more relevant,” Haru said with a smile.

Their self-appointed diplomat grinned. “He said to call on him if we ever needed anything, advice included.”

When their train pulled into Wonderland station and the Phantom Thieves disembarked, they looked for Igor but did not see him. Somehow, he had already gone without their noticing, despite the emptiness of both the train car and the platform. They exited the subway, stepping out into wan sunlight, the sky gray with clouds. Beyond this lay a landscape of bland concrete and a gunmetal gray ocean. An aged bloodstain marred the sidewalk nearby, about a foot in diameter with trailing splatter leading away from the T. As they got their bearings, the disappointment Makoto knew her comrades would inevitably experience settled in. A woman with stringy hair and well-manicured nails approached to offer them crack, shocking the less worldly members of the group. Ryuji stepped in to politely refuse, and the woman took her leave with no further fuss, being a sensible saleswoman.

As for the man who had insisted upon this particular outing, he looked out over Wonderland and commented simply, “That’s it?”

They took lunch at a nearby sandwich shop that had decent Yelp reviews, just to make the trip worthwhile. Boarding the inbound Blue Line, they saw Igor on the train again, but in another car, despite his absence on the station platform moments before. This time they had their car to themselves, and their return ride to Government Center was wholly uneventful, outside of the otherworldly atmosphere the Blue Line inspired.

Once again downtown, they walked to the North End for Mike’s Pastry. The shop’s line was predictably long, but it resulted in ample quantities of delicious Italian pastry, and the rare chance to introduce an uninitiated companion to a well-known fixture of the Boston landscape. While they munched, they followed the Greenway to the New England Aquarium, and from there they walked down the Harbor Walk toward South Station. Ann and Yusuke broke off from the group once there, taking the opportunity to head to their respective homes on the Red Line and Commuter Rail respectively. The remainder of the group meandered over to Downtown Crossing, putting the water at their backs, and engaged in some light windowshopping together. They parted ways after that, Makoto and Haru walking together toward the Garage at Post Office Square where they were both parked. It had been a long time since the two women had enjoyed some one-on-one time, and Makoto was grateful for the company.

“I think Akira’s been a good addition to the team,” Haru remarked offhand. “I’m glad Ryuji brought him in.”

“He’s definitely had a big impact,” Makoto replied.

“Do you not like him?”

That surprised Makoto. “Well, no, nothing like that. We’ve hung out a few times. He just… puts me on edge sometimes.”

“How so?” Haru prodded.

“He’s… very intelligent, but sometimes disingenuous, almost. Something like that. I guess I just have a hard time getting a read on his motives.”

“Motives? Makoto, he’s not a, I don’t know, a suspect.”

Makoto smiled, though the scrunch of her brows betrayed her. “No, I know, I just—do you ever feel observed? Like everything you do is being analyzed?”

Haru sighed. “Of course. Lately it feels like the shareholders are just waiting for me to make a mistake. None of them have been hostile, but the energy in the room with them always seems aggressive.” She glanced at Makoto, a hint of concern in her eyes. “Akira’s not like that to you, right?”

“Okay, first, that’s awful that they’re treating you that way. You are an _amazing_ CEO, and they’re lucky to have you, even if they don’t realize it.”

Haru chuckled with embarrassment, not at all displeased to receive the compliment.

“And secondly, you’re right. He’s not like that. There’s nothing hostile or aggressive or mean-spirited about it. It’s just observation, for its own sake, I think. But it also doesn’t really matter that there’s no judgment to it; just sensing that he’s always watching feels uncomfortable by itself.”

Something not unlike a realization crossed Haru’s face, faster than Makoto could assign it a taxonomy. Whatever it was, Haru’s words didn’t reveal it. “He’s certainly an observant person. I think he really likes people.”

Makoto agreed with that. “I don’t really know what else to say about it. There’s nothing malicious, no crossed boundaries, really. There’s just this tension between us all the time. I think it’s just me, feeling watched. If that’s even actually happening.”

Haru smiled in a way meant to soften her words. “That is what’s happening.” Haru’s tone was lilting, knowing—the kind of tone used to gently tease a friend who has failed to see something entirely obvious. With that tone, the words carried _implications._

“Wait, what do you mean?” Makoto asked. Haru attempted to brush the question off, but Makoto persisted.

“It’s just that… he’s very _aware_ of you,” Haru said. “Every time he walks into the studio, he scans the room until he spots you. Ann and I actually got a bit worried about it at first, so we talked Ryuji and Yusuke into talking to Akira about it. They didn’t really come up with anything useful, so we wound up talking to him, too, and—there wasn’t anything to be worried about.”

Makoto stopped, forcing Haru to halt just a few paces ahead. They’d reached Post Office Square, oddly empty compared to weekdays, but its fountain nonetheless flowed with a susurration that contrasted the honks and sirens in the distance.

“Is that a euphemism?” Makoto said.

Haru looked away, as if searching for words. “He likes you as a person, and he wants to get to know you better.”

“I am not feeling less worried, Haru.”

“There wasn’t anything creepy about it when we talked to him, I promise.”

“I trust you, Haru, I really do. Dancing around whatever’s going on just, isn’t making me feel better about it.”

“We think he has a crush on you.”

Makoto blinked a few times at that. Somehow the idea didn’t fit into her brain—not because it didn’t make sense, but because it _did_. “But what about Ann?” she asked stupidly.

The frank confusion in Haru’s face only increased Makoto’s feeling of foolishness. “They have chemistry,” Makoto explained lamely.

Haru actually laughed. “Oh, Makoto, there’s nothing going on there. They confide in each other, yes, but they’re just friends. I mean, you’re not entirely off base. Akira’s certainly attractive—I think we’re _all_ a little affected by that—but he’s already turned her down, and Ann’s hardly one to pine when she gets a clear answer. She’s not even slightly interested now.”

“She asked him out?” The words felt sour in her mouth, and they arrived without Makoto’s wanting them. As she said them, she discovered that she didn’t like that Ann had done so, but the reason for that felt jumbled and amorphous.

“Please don’t bring up that rule.” Haru sounded tired.

“No, I—I’m just surprised.”

“Ann’s a very direct person,” Haru said by way of explanation. “It’s a great quality of hers.” And Haru blushed, the pink matching her sweater.

Makoto cast aside her confusing snarl of feelings—an undercurrent in Haru’s commentary on Ann clicked into place. “Haru, do you have a crush on Ann?”

Haru’s ears went red. “Oh, I—I don’t know if she swings that way.”

“I didn’t know _you_ do.”

Haru produced a flighty laugh, more nerves than anything else. “I only realized recently myself. Um, Akira actually helped me figure it out. He just… talked me through it. I’m, ah, not exactly ready to share this with people yet, Makoto. Can you keep this to yourself for now?”

“Of course! Obviously, of course, yes. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Thank you,” Haru said, beaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was it: the joke I wrote the fic for. The Blue Line is the Velvet Room.


	6. Rank 6: Judgment

When it came right down to it, Makoto would have preferred Haru had not shared her and Ann’s theory about their teammate’s feelings toward Makoto, or at the least that this information had come to light _later_. Of the members finalizing the Arséne piece, only Ann had ideas regarding how to turn it into something like a duet, and her ideas were, to Makoto, somewhat romantic—although Makoto wasn’t sure if she felt that way because of the new information or because the mood Ann proposed was, in fact, romantically inspired. Her costar expressed no opposition to the ideas Ann offered, and so Makoto found herself in the less than desirable position of figuring out what was and was not a reasonable ask on her own, without a clear sense of where the line between reasonable concern and overreaction lay.

They tried an arrangement in which Queen cut in, drawing Joker’s attention and engaging him in something similar to a tango, the piece concluding with Joker dipping Queen. Makoto vetoed it on the basis of its innate implication of a romantic connection between the characters—but only after they’d tried it, and tried it with the roles reversed wherever feasible, and her costar had done his best to make a goof of the dip itself, dipping Makoto with a jokingly amorous enthusiasm that was more than her recently informed heart could handle, and exaggerating his own helplessness when she dipped him such that she nearly dropped him. Had she been less strong, she would have.

Another arrangement they attempted involved Queen joining the dance partway through by mirroring it, eventually reaching through the metaphorical mirror to make contact with Joker and conclude the piece in unison. Makoto was very partial to this iteration, but her comrades prevailed upon her to attempt at least a few more options before settling on it. Begrudgingly, she tried a full-blown waltz, a conceit which bordered on interpretive dance, and a rather hastily thought out attempt to have two separate choreographies occur throughout the whole piece, eventually synchronizing into one performed in unison.

Ultimately, they landed somewhere in the middle of several of their ideas. Joker opened the piece alone, performing the sensual yet harsh choreography of the prior version. At the halfway point, Queen entered, already engaged in a choreography of her own that showed their difference in character. Where Joker’s choreography utilized broad gestures, sensuous movements, and sharp pulls and jerks, Queen’s relied on physical power, control, and tight, precise movements. If Joker’s conflict was metaphorical, depicting the experience of being pulled in many directions at once, then Queen’s was much more akin to a fistfight.

Entering the final quarter of the piece, the two choreographies began to blend into one another, Joker adopting the strength of Queen’s as she took on the fluidity of his. Steadily, they came closer to one another until, finally standing face-to-face, they mirrored each other and, after just enough beats to demonstrate the unity of the choreography, they made contact, their right arms passing over one another and grasping the other’s near the elbow. The dance did not quite change style or flavor, but from there they drew close and began to waltz in a unconventional fashion. They traded off leads and retained the modernist sensibility, but they were now undeniably dancing together, and they maintained physical contact throughout, though the point of contact occasionally changed.

By the time Makoto returned home on the final day of polishing the new choreography, the only other vehicles on the streets were speeding twenty or thirty miles over every speed limit, each road empty and echoing outside of these brief interlopers. Johanna roared down 90, a blue hued streak through the night, and soon enough pulled into the small driveway attached to her building. Exhausted and still sweaty from several hours spent dancing, Makoto shucked the majority of her gear and clothing in the living room. Sae merely raised an eyebrow from her position on the couch, surrounded by reports and papers and case files. Makoto vanished into the shower for a good twenty minutes. She felt more human, if also more tired, afterward and joined Sae, armed with pajamas and a water bottle whose contents she halved in hardly any time.

“Rough day?” Sae asked.

“Just long,” Makoto sighed. “We figured out the Arséne choreo, but it was a lot.”

“Hm.” Sae noted something down on a legal pad, adding a paperclip to an already thoroughly marked-up case file. “Want to talk about it?”

For nearly all Makoto’s life, her elder sister-turned-guardian had been distant, emotionally. Their significant age gap and the realities of their family and financial situation fostered resentment, compartmentalization, isolation, and absence. However, Makoto’s departure to college unexpectedly led to a reclamation of their respective selves; able to breathe once more, to discover and learn and take hold of their lives without unending reference to one another, both women grew by leaps and bounds. As a consequence, their relationship improved. Sae now made sincere, if somewhat inconsistent, efforts to connect to Makoto and rebuild the supportive family they’d lost with their father’s death. Makoto did her best to encourage that behavior as a rule, and so, although she did not even slightly want to talk about it, she told Sae about how difficult defining choreography for the Arséne piece had proved to be. Doing so necessitated discussing the nigh innumerable ways in which working with their newest team member was frustrating, and that led to the Wonderland trip.

“Our new member wanted to go to Wonderland,” Makoto explained. Sae pulled a reproving face and Makoto laughed. “I know. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was set on it. He got most of the team to go along with it, so I went along too, to keep an eye on things.”

“Did Ryuji go?”

“Of course.”

“Good call, then,” Sae said with a laugh.

As Makoto told the rest of the Wonderland tale, she found it necessary to explain the rest of that day, which led her to mention Akechi’s odd behavior.

“Actually, I ran into him today,” Sae said. “He mentioned something similar about—what’s-his-name, Kurusu? It seemed like he knows him. Personally, I mean.”

Makoto weighed that. “That could explain why he had information about him. Why not be up front about it?”

Sae shrugged. “Akechi’s always been hard to read. I’d be speculating based on nothing. How do you feel about him coming back to dance?”

“Like I said, the team was upset about it.”

“Not the team, _you_ ,” Sae said pointedly.

Makoto had been deliberately not thinking about that. Faced with the question, she closed her eyes, trying to find where her analysis of the situation ended and her feelings about it began. “It’s… annoying,” she said at last. “But caring about it makes me feel petty, so I’m trying not to.”

Sae set the papers she’d been working with down and swiveled to face Makoto properly. “But you do care.”

Makoto met Sae’s eyes, saw that reading look there, and decided not to lie. “I do, and I don’t want to.”

“Not to be an armchair psychologist,” Sae began, “but you haven’t exactly put yourself out there since Akechi. Maybe a couple of dates would do you good? Sort of show yourself that you’ve moved on?” Makoto groaned, and Sae persisted, “I know it’s a pain, but just… think about it. You’ve built a great life for yourself, Makoto. I’m really incredibly proud of you. I just don’t want there to be a little storm cloud following you around every time your ex comes up, especially when he’s a colleague.”

Makoto pouted over this very solid, reasonable advice for a moment before admitting defeat. “You’re right; I know you are. It’s just… difficult to think about dating. But I’ll try to.”

Their conversation soon turned to other topics. They chatted as a series of cooking-centric YouTube videos played quietly in the background, warming the space with the rhythm of chatter and productivity. As they hit their fourth cooking video, Makoto relayed a recent incident at practice in which Joker, attempting to perform the flip at the end of the Joining choreo, completely flubbed it, winding up in a sprawling pile of limbs with Skull. He’d been trying to show off, and Sae joined Makoto in laughing over the gaff. When they’d gotten their chuckles out, Sae asked, “Joker is the new member, Kurusu, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know you haven’t said his name?”

Makoto blinked at her sister in confusion. “What?”

“Every time you’ve talked about him today, you haven’t used his name.”

“Huh,” Makoto said. Was that true?

“Actually, I don’t think you’ve said his name for the past couple of weeks, now that I think about it. For a second I thought there was another new member I’d missed somehow.”

“No, there’s just the seven of us. Sae, are you sure?”

“Very. I haven’t heard ‘Kurusu’ for a while. Did something happen?”

“I don’t think so. I guess he did suggest he didn’t like that name…” She blushed despite herself, memory throwing her back against the glass once more to feel as much as hear the question and its subtle accusation, _Why._ Without wanting to, she’d returned again and again to the scene in the privacy of her own mind, reminded by a seemingly infinite series of miniscule cues, every one potent enough to send her into the moment itself. Again there would be the musty scent of the practice room intermingled with the smell of coffee that followed him everywhere. Again there would be the black bangs shadowing but not hiding mischievous eyes, a rakish smile with a soft voice questioning her, teasing.

Sae’s gaze pierced Makoto’s thoughts; Makoto blushed as much from awareness of her sister’s watchful eyes as from her memories. Sae scanned Makoto’s face with the same speed at which she read text. “You sure about that?” Sae said.

“He… tried to make a joke, but it, uh, flustered me.” When Sae simply raised her eyebrows in response, Makoto blurted, “I don’t know, Sae, he’s hot and has a poor grasp of personal space.”

Shock registered on Sae’s face, but then she laughed deeply, small tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. When she recovered enough, she exclaimed, “I’ve never heard you call someone that before!”

Mortified, Makoto dragged one of the couch pillows into her lap and buried her face in it. “Haruthinkshehasacrushonme,” she said into it.

“Oh?” Sae responded, having understood.

“I don’t know how I feel about it. Or if it’s true,” Makoto added, coming up for air. She looked to Sae for answers, her own brows knitted with distress.

Sae did have answers, but not the sort Makoto wanted. “Go on a date with him,” she suggested.

“Sae, no.”

“Makoto, yes. You’ll have a better idea how you feel afterwards, where you both stand.” She picked her work papers back up, taking a pen in hand. “That or just talk to him about it. Either way, you’ll have to do something about this little sophomoric drama eventually. Unless one of you leaves the group, of course.”

“This is why we have a no-relationships rule,” Makoto groaned, face reconnecting with pillow.

Sae barked a humorless laugh. “That’s a bad rule.”


	7. Rank 7: The Emperor

The Phantom Thieves’ costumes were tailor-fit, custom-made outfits, and they represented the last step in establishing both a character and membership in the team. A man named Kanji Tatsumi, whom Ann knew from her now long-abandoned career as a model, created the pieces for them. Kanji and his partner, Naoto, had lived in many places in the world as his family’s business, Tatsumi Textiles, expanded and grew to become a global force in fashion. The couple moved to New York state around the same time that the Phantom Thieves formed, a happy coincidence that led to the Thieves’ commissioning work from Tatsumi Textiles whenever costume-related needs arose.

Tatsumi Textiles itself had a branch in New York City—which had prompted the move—and Kanji continued to work out of that boutique. However, many of the business’s processes remained highly traditional, keeping those Kanji’s family had originated in Japan, and as a result, Kanji’s work blanketed his home as well as his shop. For this reason and his professional connection with Ann, he was willing to set aside Tatsumi Textile’s forever full backlog for the Phantom Thieves, inviting them directly to his home for their fittings, sneaking their commissions in, often off the books. Which was fortuitous as, with the qualifier competitions coming up and a suite of choreographies now fully prepared, the time had come to have Joker’s costume made.

Getting to Kanji’s place and going through the fittings and design sessions with him required time and a vehicle, and hardly any of them had much to spare of the former. Equally, only a few of them could offer the latter, as having a car in Boston was, simply, impractical. The task of chauffeuring Joker’s player to his fittings fell to Makoto—she alone had both a vehicle and sufficient PTO to spare. As she hadn’t yet taken Sae’s frustratingly reasonable advice to _talk_ to him about… whatever was going on, this was a bit inconvenient, although Makoto wasn’t exactly upset about it. Leaving aside the still confusing topic of her traveling companion, she hadn’t had many chances to take Johanna out for truly long trips recently, and a journey to New York would certainly be that.

The costume-less individual espoused no opposition to the arrangement, although Makoto picked up a slight sense of apprehension from him. She arranged a stay at an Air BnB relatively near to Kanji’s place, and her fellow traveler set about getting the funds for the costume in order and transferring Morgana into Futaba’s care for the duration of the three days they would be away. When the day of the trip arrived, the Air BnB has been secured and confirmed to have multiple bedrooms; the funds were perfectly in order; Morgana was in good hands; and the motorcycle was ready for the journey. All was as it should be, although Makoto struggled to sleep the night prior, anxiety devouring her. She snatched a few interrupted hours, rising while the world was still dark to head to J.P.

It was still very early when she picked her erstwhile teammate up. He yawned the sleep out of his system as they fastened his duffel to the bike and got underway. They didn’t talk much at all for the first hour. Only the small communications needed for safety or practicality passed between them. With the beginning of hour two, Makoto pulled into a highway rest stop that offered a Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Leg stretch,” she told her passenger as they disembarked. “It’s at least three more hours to NYC, so we’re going to stop every hour or so to shake ourselves out and do whatever else needs doing.”

In order to keep an eye on the belongings that did not fit into Johanna’s saddlebags, they took it in turns to make use of the rest stop’s facilities, her passenger bringing coffee and donuts for both of them. They sat curbside by the bike to down the classic roadtrip breakfast, and as they crumpled the bags the doughnuts had come in, her companion said, “I’m sorry about this.”

Makoto sat up straighter and looked at him with concern.

He tugged on a lock of his hair. “This is inconvenient, I know, and, um, I understand you might not feel comfortable being alone with me like this…”

She knew what he was referring to—of course she did, she couldn’t help thinking about it—but why it had come up _now_ was beyond her. “Where is this coming from?”

He smiled weakly at her, still toying with his hair. “No offense, but you’ve looked furious this whole time.”

That surprised, and shamed, her. She stood to look at her face in one of Johanna’s side mirrors and saw that he was right. She rubbed her face with her palms and forcibly unlocked her jaw, stretching the frown lines out of her face via a serious of increasingly silly expressions. Her companion chuckled as she elasticized her face, and she grinned back at him, sitting down beside him once more. “I’ve been a little stressed lately,” she told him. “Lots going on at work, all that.”

“Only that?”

Her first impulse was to double down and obscure the full truth of the matter, but looking at his face, she could see the sharpness of his reading hers once more. “Okay,” she admitted, “I’ve been a little apprehensive about this trip too.” After a beat she added, “I didn’t actually sleep much last night.”

“Because I did that thing in the studio,” he said.

“I mean yes, but also it’s a long way for an inexperienced rider to go, so I doing a lot of worrying about safety.”

“Makoto.” He adjusted his position on the curb so that he could face her more fully. He’d ditched his glasses for the trip, which gave her the full brunt of his mutable intensity. Generally, his glasses subdued the sharpness of his gaze, returned the ordinary to his aspect, and brought out the kindness in his face. Without them, less of his face was hidden, and his confidence—no, his _strength of will_ —came through more clearly, and that quality was alluring, which sent Makoto into high alert. It felt dangerous, like deciding whether to jump from a high rockface into the lake below, or taking a turn a little too fast on Johanna. The smallest changes in his expression had a way of making him seem a whole new person, and all the time Makoto felt that there was the subdued version of him—the version she had so often thought of as being tactically affable and pleasant—and then there was _him—_ rebellious, brazen, playful, and quick.

“I made you uncomfortable,” he continued, “and I’m sorry. It was a step too far, and I’ll be much more careful not to cross your boundaries in the future. I just… want you to know that.”

Given the heat in her face, Makoto was quite certain she’d turned a lovely shade of scarlet, but her voice held out steady as she thanked him for the apology and let him know that he was already forgiven. “I promise you, we wouldn’t be going on this trip together if that wasn’t the case. I won’t pretend that I’ve been wholly comfortable with this situation, but I know you don’t have bad intentions. I trust you.”

He nodded, acknowledging her thoughts, and looked away, almost sheepish. “You’re kind of amazing, Makoto.”

“What? How?”

He waved his hand in a way that encompassed all that had just passed between them. “Your capacity is astounding. You’re not just intelligent, you’re hardworking. You’re not just brave, you’re wise. I don’t know if it’s self-doubt or humility, but you’re one of the least egotistical leaders I’ve met—and yes, you _are_ one. It comes naturally to you, so you don’t see it. I’m not saying it’s not stressful for you—I just mean that you seem to do it almost by instinct, so I think you underestimate the impact you have on the people around you. When you make mistakes, you come back from them, you clearly make the effort to learn, reassess, and correct, and then you keep on giving, freely, often before you’ve been asked. I think all of that is pretty amazing.”

Makoto boggled at him, half-whispering a “thank you” when she finally parsed that he’d finished. Both a bit embarrassed, they sat in silence for a little while before awkwardly resuming their trip.

At the end of the four-hour ride, they went directly to the Air BnB for their keys and to drop their bags off. The place Makoto had rented for them was a modest duplex, which they had one side of, the other being currently unoccupied. A simple kitchen, living, and dining space formed an open floorplan on the ground level, and a back porch affixed to the living room-side of the space offered excellent airflow, although its view was lackluster. The living area additionally provided a gas fireplace, which was nice, while the half-bath adjoining that room added a faint, mothball smell, which was less so.

A thin staircase against one wall led to the second floor where the full bath, which had a weirdly tall ceiling interrupted by a chimney, a master bedroom, and what appeared to be a bedroom intended for a child, all awaited them. The pair briefly argued over which room they would respectively occupy, each of them insisting on taking the small bedroom with its single twin bed. Makoto ultimately lost this battle. Her companion stole both of their bags, tossed hers into the master, and took his own and himself into the small room, closing the door and holding it shut against her protests, giggling all the while. He did not come out until she promised to use the nicer of the two rooms.

Once they’d unloaded Johanna and refreshed themselves a little, they got back on the road and made their way to New York City. Leaving the bike secure in a parking garage, they located a Korean BBQ shop that wasn’t completely packed and shared a large order of galbi. The meal was lively; the air between them felt light now, and miles of fresh air had buoyed Makoto’s spirits from flustered befuddlement to a breezy form of elation. Their lunchtime chat covered topics large and small, shallow and deep, and likely they would have continued on that way had they not had an appointment to keep. As it was, they motored from the city to the home of Kanji Tatsumi, out in the suburbs. Makoto hadn’t actually met with Kanji since Haru joined the Phantom Thieves, but familiarity and remembrance gave the house a warmth, even as she stood on its stoop, that precluded any anxiety.

Kanji answered his door quickly, wearing an outfit well-suited to the motorcycle from which his visitors had descended. A satin ribbon overflowing with pins and needles slung across his chest like a bandolier offset the macho impression and the hard angles of his face. He grinned broadly on sighting Makoto. “Hey! Makoto! Good to see you!” They clasped hands with a clap.

“You too, Kanji.” She gestured to her companion. “This is our new member, and your subject.”

“Akira Kurusu,” said the subject by way of introduction. “Nice to meet you.” He and Kanji shook hands, and Kanji ushered the pair of Thieves inside, leading them past miscellaneous household rubble to a dining table strewn with fabric, tape measures, pens both ink and flour, rulers, boards card and otherwise, two rather different sewing machines, and an array of scissors.

“Sorry about the mess,” Kanji said. “Big order from an old friend back in Japan. She runs an inn in our hometown, so I like to do her stuff personal. Naoto’s gone on a business trip, so their stuff wound up everywhere from packing.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I’d’ve liked to see them,” Makoto said.

“I’ll let ‘em know you missed them.” Kanji brought out an iced fruit tea from the kitchen, which was separated from the dining area by a counter, and his guests happily partook of the beverage. On the walls of the dining room photos of Kanji and his long-time friends clustered in yellow-tinted nostalgia. One set of photos in particular showed them all in their hometown, over a variety of scenes, many of which appeared to date to their high school years. Another set provided Kanji and Naoto’s wedding photos, an epilogue of snapshots showing the many places they’d traveled spiraling out somewhat haphazardly. Kanji and Naoto had about seven years’ seniority on the Phantom Thieves, but Makoto never felt that age gap when visiting with them.

“So, Akira,” Kanji said, “Ann sent a sketch from Yusuke of your costume ideas. I came up with some designs, if you’re ready to take a look.”

“I’d love to see.”

Kanji pulled a sizeable iPad to himself and made a few selections before turning it to face his clients. One of the consistent elements in the Joker designs the Thieves had thought up together was his mask—a masquerade-like domino mask, all white with black-rimmed eyes. This element Kanji had not altered, merely refined, in his designs. From there, both the Thieves’ and Kanji’s concepts spread out into a panoply of differing stylizations and colors. Kanji’s utilized a fairly consistent color scheme of black, white, and an accent color. The first decision they came to, after seeing the ideas on digital paper, was to use a crimson accent. The next was to adopt a tailed overcoat, fitted vest, and leather gloves. The pants they left wholly up to Kanji, though his client favored boots with a slight heel.

Marking up the silhouette his client best liked, Kanji made himself some notes for the details of the outfit, meant to exaggerate and give it a Romantic effect. Kanji suggested making the vest form-fitting to the point of being corset-like visually, although he stipulated that it would have no boning, for the practical purpose of dancing; it would be a visual conceit, not a physical one. To Makoto’s surprise, her fellow Thief loved this idea for the vest and likely would have approved a full-on corset if Kanji had suggested it.

A bevy of notes on materials filled up the now much-modified sketch, and the trio spent a significant chunk of their time together touching swatches of fabric, choosing materials which balanced each of their primary concerns—practicality, cost, and charisma. Kanji had designed with comfort in mind—how would Joker move? would this be comfortable to dance in?—and he demonstrated for them his ideas on how each part of the outfit would be worn and how they might attach to one another to maintain the desired effect while staying out of Joker’s way during a performance.

“Kanji, this is fantastic,” Makoto said when they’d all reached consensus.

“I. Love. It,” said her fellow Thief.

Kanji seemed to be touched by the praise. “Aw, thanks guys. If you’re good with this, I’ll take some measurements now. I’ll make a clean sketch of the design and send that to you today. If you need revisions, we can make ‘em, but once you approve the look, I’ll start on a mock-up so we can see if I’ve got the sizing right tomorrow. After that it’ll be one more draft, a final fitting, and then I’ll get to work on the real thing.”

“We’ve made arrangements to stay in the area until Monday afternoon, so we’ll be around,” Makoto said.

They worked out a few final details, and Makoto furnished Kanji with a down payment taken from the troupe’s limited budget. Digging out a measuring tape, Kanji instructed Joker’s actor to take off anything he wouldn’t be wearing under his costume, providing the recommendation that he wear some sort of undershirt, given the how tight the vest would be.

“Your weight change much?” Kanji asked.

“Not really,” the younger man said, casting the accessories and shoes he’d been wearing into a pile with his outdoor things.

“Lucky,” Kanji remarked. He glanced at Makoto.

“She can stay,” came the younger man’s reply to Kanji’s unspoken question. He took off his belt.

“No, no, she cannot,” Makoto said in some alarm. She ducked around the corner, making her way to Kanji’s living room, but as she made her escape, she thought she saw a wicked little smirk appear on her fellow Thief’s face. He’d been joking, of course. Of course.

Idling in the living room, Makoto browsed her phone, paying only a little attention to the conversation in the other room. She could hear the measuring tape pull taut and occasionally snap against whatever bit of her companion it was measuring. Neither her phone nor the half-heard conversation offered her much reprieve from the mental distraction his little joke had caused.

“Okay, Makoto, he’s got pants on,” Kanji called, summoning her back to the dining room. Indeed, he did have pants on. And a thin undershirt. And not much else. He smiled at her with a bright innocence that was, without doubt, wholly insincere. She pretended not to notice… any of it.

With all visitors dressed fully, Kanji insisted on their staying for dinner, which they did, helping him prepare it. Their meal came paired with wine, and so they stayed much later than they’d planned, chatting with Kanji as he worked on the refined final sketch for Joker’s outfit and waiting to be sure that the little wine Makoto had taken left her system. They approved Kanji’s completed design before they left.

By the time the two Thieves returned to the Air BnB, they were both exhausted. Makoto trundled to her temporary room, planning to shower before sleep, and it was at that moment that an ominous crack followed by an “Oh!” caught her ear.

“You okay?” she called.

“Well, _I’m_ okay,” her teammate called back.

She walked into the hall and peered around the doorframe into the small bedroom. He’d lifted the comforter on the twin bed. There was no mattress, just a cardboard box propping up the comforter, like the room had been staged for sale rather than occupation. The cardboard had been dented in the middle by a Phantom Thief’s butt.

“I’ll… look around,” he said, bemused. “Maybe it’s somewhere else.”

“Let me help.”

They searched every likely place they could get into, but the only mattress they found was the queen on Makoto’s bed. By the time they’d scoured the house, the time read 2:30 AM and they’d been awake for around twenty-one hours.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch downstairs,” he said.

“That is a loveseat, and it’s shorter than your body,” Makoto countered. She felt stubborn, which was because she was sleepy, which was a bad place to make decisions from, but she felt too sleepy to hear her own logic just then, especially because she was stubborn. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the loveseat.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” she said, stubbornly. “I’ll fit on it better than—”

“It’s shorter than you, too, and you’re our wheels. You can’t drive a motorcycle sleep-deprived.”

This sounded like a reason he came up with solely to deflect further argument, and she called him on it.

“Would you accept the emotional reason?” he said—nearly snapped, she thought. “That I’d prefer you be comfortable than me be comfortable?”

She acknowledged that no, she would not. “There’s not a lot of options, though. There’s only one bed, so either one of us sleeps badly on the loveseat or, we share it.” She’d been thinking and speaking simultaneously, and so the notion didn’t really strike her until she’d already said it. From the look on her companion’s face, the idea took him completely by surprise as well; he hadn’t considered it a possibility.

“Wouldn’t that be… uncomfortable,” he said, the hint of a question hovering around its edges like a nervous bird.

For the first time in a while, Makoto really looked at him. They both had changed into some variant of lounge clothes or pajamas, although he must have still had contacts in—his glasses were absent. The comfy clothes he’d put on weren’t the items she’s seen him wear for dance practice. They were soft, loose-fitting sleep clothes, white and black, and they leant him an air of domesticity. His face had an innocent cast, this one not at all a mischievous ploy for their ongoing game of banter but rather a wholly sincere expression.

His concerns were as he said they were: he wanted her to be comfortable, to be happy. He was very, very worried about it, she saw. Not just about her comfort for the night, but all the time. Her mind turned back to when he’d pinned her to the wall, and the distress in his face when he realized his gag hadn’t been amusing for her. That distress could have been about rejection, but it wasn’t: it had been fear that she’d been hurt or simply made unhappy, and that fear was still there, right now, staring her in the face. Her caution abruptly felt excessive, the distance she’d maintained between them ridiculous—none of it was about _him_. None of it had ever _been_ about him. How could it be? Makoto had been hiding in the shadow of an ex long gone, of a breakup long past. She hadn’t been able to _see_ the person in front of her at all.

But now she did.

“I trust you, Akira,” she said. He actually flushed at the use of his given name—and in the same moment Makoto understood that not only was that response appropriate, but that Sae had been right. The way the name formed in her mouth told her that she had not called Akira anything at all for weeks. She hadn’t even _thought_ his name, defining him instead by anything and everything else. That had been wrong of her, she decided. She’d been cowardly. “We’ll share the bed,” she continued aloud. “If you’re okay with that.”

She’d shocked him. Makoto watched Akira struggle to find and articulate an appropriate response. He managed to squeak, “Sure! I mean, yes! I’m okay with that, yes. Sorry.”

She laughed to ease the tension. “Sorry, that came out a little intense. But, um, if neither of us will let the other one sleep on the loveseat, then that’s the logical answer, right?”

“Very,” he agreed, taking refuge in the idea of logic. “I’ll, leave my stuff in the small bedroom, so we’ll both still have a space to change.”

“That’s a good idea. Speaking of, I want to shower before bed, so, uh, I’ll do that now.”

“Right.”

They stood staring at one another in uncertainty for a moment more. Both leapt into action simultaneously, Makoto scampering to the shower, and Akira heading toward the kitchen to do possibly nothing other than escape the situation. Once in the bathroom with her clothes and toiletries, Makoto closed—and locked—the bathroom door with a sense of relief. The old electric feeling that so often passed between her and Akira had made a reappearance, but now it was difficult to ignore, and more alive, as if the current were stronger. It made her feel off-balance, and she needed to collect herself. Giving herself that space to relax, to not be task-focused, she pressed her forehead to the door, eyes closed. Somewhere in the house, Akira dropped something and swore about it.

Makoto took her time in the shower. She allowed the hot water to soothe away the aches in her muscles from so much time astride Johanna, carrying the weight of two. She washed slowly, procrastinating her return to the shared spaces, delaying the need to decide _how_ to share the bed. She trusted him—that was true, even if she wasn’t sure when it had become true—but that didn’t make the prospect of sharing sleeping space less intimidating. She hadn’t lied that morning: she fundamentally would not have agreed to the trip if she didn’t feel safe in Akira’s company. It was just that, even in that context of safety, the innate intimacy of shared bedding provided her nerves plenty to work with.

She tried to pick that apart a little. Was it Haru and Ann’s theory that Akira had a crush on Makoto? Was it Sae’s suggestion that Makoto not only date again but in fact consider Akira for the position? Or had Akira’s prior actions—the teasing and the proximity and the thrice-damned handsomeness—put romance into her mind? Was it perhaps the prospect of waking up with Akira all too close, a suggestive and cocky “good morning, my dear” ready to tease her, rolling out of that mischievous mouth—

Or maybe, she thought as she changed the water temperature to something more bracing, the problem was entirely her own.

Shower concluded, she dallied over whether or not to wear a bra to bed, beneath her pajamas. It was not a comfortable thing to do, nor something she would have done normally—bras were not and never would be sleepwear—but the idea of being without one in Akira’s presence, even as _just_ an idea, made her feel exposed, and so she settled on the lesser evil of wearing a bralette she’d packed _just in case_ of needing a more-clothed-than-usual-but-still-reasonably-comfortable means of sleeping. It had been an excess of caution that she was now grateful for.

To procrastinate just a touch longer, she blow-dried her hair lightly, brushed her teeth, and took a minute or two to collect her composure and resolve. Thus prepared, she entered the bedroom with a calm, neutral expression that disguised the trepidation she felt to a reasonable degree.

Akira was in the bed, the lamps on the nightstand on either side of it casting orange-yellow light. The overhead was off, and Akira sat up, leaning on pillows piled against the headboard, quite tidily and thoroughly restricting himself to the right side of the bed. A hardcover novel rested against his bent legs, and his glasses had made a triumphant return. The light from the lamps caught their glass and further obscured his expression when he looked up on her entrance. He smiled, but swiftly turned his attention back to the book with such studious speed that Makoto had no doubt at all that he was not actually reading. She wasn’t sure if Akira being obviously nervous made her more or less so.

The tension in the air spiked when she got into bed. Akira’s pajamas hadn’t changed, and Makoto had selected similarly conservative ones for herself, although she’d chosen shorts rather than long pants. In her own home, she would have simply slept in an oversized shirt and nothing else, but that was unthinkable under the circumstances. The rigidity of Akira’s body betrayed his own little-talked-about discomfort with the situation, and as Makoto had expected, his eyes were not scanning the pages of his book. He simply stared straight at it, uncomprehending. Overcome with a feeling of uncertainty and helplessness, Makoto also sat upright on her side of the bed, a good eight inches between the two of them, and fiddled with her phone, running through all of the apps she checked regularly, twice. She plugged the phone in to charge and hesitated.

As if he’d been waiting for a cue, Akira snapped his book shut and asked, without actually looking at Makoto, “Should we go to sleep, then?”

“Yes! It’s late.” She tried a smile. She hoped it was reassuring and not panicked.

Akira’s book and glasses joined his phone on his nightstand, and he reached for the lamp switch. He looked over his shoulder at her. His face looked so open and, strangely, shy. She felt her chest tighten.

They switched their lights off almost simultaneously, each saying good night, before settling into their pillows, facing away from one another, thereby increasing the distance between them. Doing so pulled the comforter taut and for a few moments they struggled with not accidentally stealing the blankets from the other, an issue they resolved by wiggling closer to the center of the bed in defeat. They chuckled their embarrassment out, doing their mutual best to discharge the live wire filling the no man’s land between them with static.

Akira fell asleep first. Makoto, half-dozing, came awake all at once at 4:00 AM for the third time as the unfamiliar creaks and settlings of the house cut through peaceful night. She sat up slightly, looking around the room. The latest timber groan had sounded uncomfortably nearby, but she also wasn’t sure that she hadn’t dreamed it. The room offered nothing suspicious and the house provided only ordinary noises. She grumbled at her anxious insomnia.

Moonlight filtered through the blinds’ slats, draping Akira in a bluish glow. He was fully asleep, curled on his side with an arm tucked beneath his pillow. His lips parted slightly, air whispering in and out with the steady rise and fall of his torso. Cautiously, Makoto leaned slightly toward him to better see his face. Beneath the messy fluff of his hair, his eyelashes rested against his cheeks, the eyes beneath the lids moving with a dream. One of his legs twitched in something like a kick, but he sighed, still asleep.

Makoto observed him without any particular thoughts in her mind. A serenity settled over her, and when she laid back down she fell and stayed asleep until morning when Akira’s weight leaving the bed woke her.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“S’okay,” she mumbled. “Light sleeper.”

He smiled. She vaguely registered that his hair was an absolute disaster of tangles, no longer his usual polished mess but now rather like a disheveled dandelion puff. “I’m gonna shower. You keep sleeping.”

She took this suggestion to heart, drifting back off shortly after the water in the bathroom came on. She didn’t stay asleep long. When she woke, the hairdryer’s industrial whine replaced the shower’s bold susurration. She got up and dressed, running through the majority of her morning routine there in the bedroom. Emerging from the master bedroom, Makoto found that the bathroom door was open, so she knocked on the door frame, entering once Akira had acknowledged her arrival.

Akira turned off the hairdryer as she entered in favor of greeting her. The bathroom had fallen into mild disarray since last she’d seen it, mainly due to the bevy of hair products covering the sink and its attendant counter. Her eyes roved over the various hair-related items, then settled on his head. He styled his hair… to look messy. A glint of mischief sparked into Makoto’s eyes.

He saw it. “Oh no.”

“Purposeful,” she said.

“Oh no,” he reiterated, starting to laugh.

“Artfully messy,” she pressed. “Intentionally disheveled.”

He was laughing fully now. “I like to look good!”

“Messy?”

“Good!”

She laughed too. “Well, my good peacock, it’s working. Mind if I sneak in?”

“Please,” he said, making space for her.

She brushed her teeth, applied her makeup—which was limited as she preferred a natural look and had lucked out where complexion was concerned—and finished the remainder of her bathroom activities before Akira finished with his hair. She’d just put away her toiletries when he stepped back from the mirror to admire his handiwork. Watching his process, albeit from the periphery of her vision, was actually quite fascinating. She had trouble with involved hairstyles, but for all that it took time, Akira was deft. Achieving the polished-yet-effortless bedhead he wanted required far more knowledge and dedication than Makoto would have guessed.

When she remarked on this, he said, “You’ve got the braid thing down, though. I never learned how to make nice ones like that.”

She laughed. “Me neither. It’s a headband.” She demonstrated by removing the braided headband and showing it to him. It was an excellent color match for her hair, though not made of hair at all itself. Watching her casually remove what appeared to be her own hair put him in stitches. Returning the headband to her head, she said, “I’ll keep your beauty secrets if you keep mine.”

“Done,” he said.

As they hadn’t picked up any sort of groceries, they took Johanna to a diner Google Maps indicated was fairly close. The food was good—just standard diner fare—and the price better. They didn’t talk much until their breakfasts had been summarily consumed, both Thieves joining the clean plate club.

“Kanji’s not expecting us to stop by until seven or eight tonight, so we’ve got the day to do as we please,” Makoto said. “Normally I’d suggest going for a ride, but with another four-hour trip ahead of us, I’d rather not tire myself out.”

Akira agreed emphatically. “You’re doing all the work, but it’s honestly still kind of tiring back there.”

“That would be the exposure,” she said with a smile.

“What about going into the City again?” Akira suggested. “Have a tourist day?”

Makoto was amenable to the idea, and so they rode into NYC, strategically selecting a garage somewhat centrally located among the places they were likely to visit. They went to Central Park first, exploring it thoroughly. Although Makoto had been to NYC before, she’d rarely had a companion interested in simply walking around. The other Thieves she’d taken to see Kanji had generally been focused on particular destinations or activities—which was good in its own right, but now given the opportunity, she relished the experience of the city’s minutiae and the absence of structured time.

They took a selfie in front of the Balto statue, and after they’d walked as much of the park as their feet could handle, they engaged a horse-drawn carriage. Boston offered the same service to its tourists, but neither Akira nor Makoto had actually boarded one before. The carriage’s driver presumed they were a couple, embarrassing both of them. It was nonetheless pleasant, the day not too humid nor too chilly, the driver chatting with them in the coarse friendliness of a townie. When their ride came to an end and they descended from the carriage, Akira offering Makoto a hand down with a gentlemanly flair that flustered her slightly, a young man with large gauges handed them a lime green flyer for an art gallery. According to the flyer, the gallery currently hosted a sculptural collection of stylized animals presenting an array of very human emotions. On a whim they made their way over to it, finding the gallery space itself within a building that looked exactly like a residential home.

The sculptures were gorgeous. While the artist had clearly studied the animals she portrayed extensively, the aesthetic leaned into a smooth, flowing style and granted each subject an illusory life similar to a well-animated character. When they’d gotten all they could from the gallery, they set out in search of food, ultimately settling on an Italian restaurant with reasonable—within the scope of the area anyway—prices. It was family-style so they shared a plate of veal and another of angel hair, pairing the meal with a cocktail for Akira and a seltzer for the driver. Subsequently they walked back to the garage and drove back out to the town they were staying in, stopping at a grocery store near their rental to grab some ingredients for their next meals. A bottle of sake found its way into Johanna’s saddlebags at an adjoining liquor store, and they stopped at a small convenience store selling primarily Japanese foodstuffs, which provided the necessary accompaniment.

They idled at the rental for a bit, cooking themselves a modest stir fry for dinner, and made their way to Kanji’s abode for eight o’clock. Their visit lasted about an hour and half, the time consisting primarily of Akira going in and out of the mockup Kanji had made, Kanji making adjustments on Akira’s form or taking the mockup to one of the sewing machines for a few minutes. Once Kanji was satisfied with the fit, Akira and Makoto returned to the Air BnB, leaving their friend to build out the Joker costume further for the final fitting the next day.

A chill had set in with nightfall, so Akira brought up the flames in the fireplace while Makoto brought the sake and their snacks to the living room. They drank the sake from rocks glasses and slid the snacks to each other across the table, chatting about shows they’d watched recently, hypothesizing on their team’s success in the upcoming competitions, and laughing over Ryuji and Ann’s latest argument. Akira splayed over the loveseat, and Makoto curled up in a tight armchair, cat-like. A warm tipsiness settled over her, loosening her shoulders without robbing her senses. She liked sake. It rarely gave her a hangover, and it always felt like being wrapped in a cozy blanket.

“Haru said she told you,” Akira said with uncharacteristic looseness.

“And she said you helped her.”

“Glad if so,” he replied easily. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Her asking Ann out.”

Makoto tilted her head. “There’s a rule about that.”

He tilted his head in response. “Does that really matter?”

“Of course.”

“I think… you should let it go.”

Makoto closed her eyes, sighing through her nose. An image of Akechi pirouetted through, bitter in taste, and she pushed it away. Opening her eyes to Akira’s piercing gaze, the one that made him look sharp and dangerous and intelligent and challenging, she said, “Convince me.”

He rolled out of the loveseat with a thud that made her wince, although he was back on his feet in a moment. He came around the table and, pushing some of the snacks aside, perched on it in front of her. This did not put very much space between them. Makoto felt her heartrate jump up a tick. Akira took her free hand and for one utterly confounding moment she thought he meant to kiss her, but instead he looked her directly in the eye, all cheer gone from his face, and said, “They’re your friends and you can’t control them. You shouldn’t try to. If you do, it will distort everything, your heart included, and you’ll lose them, and yourself.”

He said this so frankly, and so without judgment, that it struck Makoto like a slap, one she hadn’t seen coming. Her mouth fell slightly ajar. “I’m not trying to control anyone.”

“I know,” Akira said. “You’re trying to deal with something that hurt you. The fact that you’re not _trying_ to do it doesn’t mean you aren’t doing it.”

She looked into the mostly empty cup in her other hand and her lips twisted ruefully into something superficially resembling a smile. Her brows furrowed. “Actions mean more than intentions,” she agreed.

It was something she and Akechi had argued over more than once, toward the end of their relationship. At the time, Akechi had been inconsiderate of her. They’d been cohabitating, and he’d often stay out very late without contacting her about it. He left her to worry about him, to wonder if he’d come to harm or if he’d simply gotten bored of her and chased after some new fling. She hadn’t wanted much—just a text saying “I’ll be home late tonight!” or “I won’t get in until after midnight, so don’t wait up for me!” What she got was apologies that increasingly felt empty, as the behaviors he apologized for never changed. She got sleepless nights lost fretting over unanswered messages, tying not to overreact, unsure where the line between justified reaction and overreaction even was, trying not to think of the crimes she or her family members had borne witness to, trying not to think of how unbelievably easy it was for people to die, trying not to think of how fundamentally helpless she was to protect him, and still not sleeping, not because she wanted to stay up and wait but because her anxiety would not allow her to fall out of consciousness.

The relationship drained her, left her depressed, anxious, floundering. She put all she had into it—she had loved him, after all—but in the end Akechi left anyway, both her and the Phantom Thieves. He was unwilling or unable to explain why, and as time passed, Makoto grew angry, then furious—furious with the gaslighting she was sure he hadn’t _intended_ to do; angry at the friends who didn’t voice their concerns until the thing was already done, too _intent_ on not complicating or not offending; enraged with herself for allowing the relationship to continue despite how unhappy she was, for not being the one to end it despite her _intent_ to do so on more than one occasion. And that rage was hard to live inside of, because she had still loved him, had still believed in the good of him, still known that he had never _intended_ to hurt her, that he had tried to make things work, too, and that both of their efforts had simply not been enough.

Her pain had grown steadily more distant, as time marched on. Akechi wandered into the periphery of her life. She focused on her job and her hobbies and her friends. She dismantled her attachment to him, divested of it, but she did not wholly forgive. She found a way to interact with him, allowing the reality of him and her memory of him to coexist, but she did not fully heal. She grew and expanded her life, embraced the new, took on challenges she hadn’t felt possible before, and to all appearances _moved on_ … but she did not date. She had refused to succumb to the depression the loss inspired, but in exchange she faced the reality that no amount of good intentions could ever offset the results of an action, and that that singular truth—because it was very much a truth—predicted and bore out the end of her relationship with Akechi. Of all the pains that she faced in the aftermath, the most painful was the knowledge that their breakup had been for the best.

Her vision blurred and several tears fell into her cup, which made her start to laugh at the absurdity, but the thickness in her throat—a sorrow she only let out when Sae was away and the apartment buzzed with silence—caught her laughter and twisted it into a sob. That sob became several, and then she was weeping, taking her hand back from Akira and raising it to her mouth to hold the sorrow in, though it spilled from between her fingers.

Plainly alarmed, Akira took the cup from her and set it on the table. He took that hand instead, saying, “Makoto, I’m sorry—”

She shook her head, tried to speak, couldn’t—her throat was simply too tight.

Akira angled up to sit on the arm of the chair and hold her to his side, one arm around her shoulders, the other squeezing her hand gently, telegraphing the message “I’m here.” The words he spoke, all in a reassuring tone, were unimportant in their details. Each was a simple affirmation to reinforce that she was not alone, that she was supported, and each one was a gift.

When the worst of it had passed, Makoto managed to choke out the word “Tissue.” Akira dutifully brought the Kleenex box from the half-bath, and she loudly blew her nose into several, tossing the crumpled ones into a wastebasket on the opposite wall with precision. Akira resumed his perch on the table in front of her, taking both of her hands in his, though she shortly removed one to wipe at her face.

“That wasn’t you,” she told him, still sniffling and trying to relocate her normal voice. “That was—memories. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. I’m sorry I brought up something bad.”

Makoto shook her head firmly once more. “No, you’re right about the rule, the control. It just—my ex believed his intentions excused every hurt he ever caused. He didn’t understand that saying ‘I love you’ or that thinking it didn’t convey that message. He didn’t understand that those sentiments weren’t reflected in his actions, or that they should be. It’s—it still hurts, Akira. That rule exists because it still hurts, and it’s selfish of me, and you’re right, and I _know better_ , but I still—I’m just… furious with myself.”

He squeezed her hands, rubbing his thumb over the back of one. “Makoto, you’re not some kind of egotistical villain, and Akechi—whatever happened with the two of you, you’re not responsible for it.” There was a flash of _something_ as he said this, but he masked it quickly, and his next words chased the observation from her mind. “The rule is bad. You know that, acknowledged it. Good. That means you can _right_ it. This isn’t something to beat yourself up over. It’s something to fix.”

She nodded, taking a shaky breath in to steady herself. She tried to give him a smile.

“I know. You’re right. My logical brain gets it. My emotional brain is just sad, I guess. I don’t even know why I’m so hung up on it. Maybe I’m still holding on to him in some way. Maybe letting go of this is also letting go of him. Maybe I’m afraid.” Akira nodded his understanding and Makoto went on, “I loved him immensely, but it was a long time ago now. Ha! I feel pathetic.”

To her surprise, Akira looked hard at her, the _will_ in his eyes pushing at her, urging her to believe, as he said, “There is not a single thing about you that’s pathetic.”

She smiled, looking at their joined hands. “Thank you, Akira.”

“Makoto.” She looked up, and he kissed her forehead. As he settled back once more, blushing, he said, “Everyone in the Phantom Thieves loves you and has your back. Me included. I’ll always be here if you need me. Please, never be afraid to ask.”

Feeling a bit stunned, she squeezed his hands in response and thanked him again. He grinned and gently released her hands, standing. “Let’s put on a movie or something,” he suggested. “Start winding down.”

They cleaned up the area a bit and found a light-hearted action movie on the smart TV’s logged-in Netflix account. Without discussion, they shared the loveseat to watch it, both sipping water to offset the drinks they’d had. When they caught themselves dozing off mid-movie, they made their way up to the bedroom. While the trepidation regarding sharing the bed hadn’t gone, it was much reduced. They were less delicate with one another, and the space between them felt less critical to maintain, though the feeling of electricity sparking between them persisted.

Thanks to either the sake or the crying, Makoto fell asleep quickly, only waking at 2AM when a fox’s cry in the night cut through her sleep. An hour later she woke again, unsure what had caused it until she shifted a little and became aware of a weight at her waist.

She froze, took stock, and carefully peered over her shoulder.

Yes, that was indeed Akira’s face right there. He was deeply asleep.

She turned her face away and waited for her pulse to return to normal, though her mind was already running at top speed.

He hadn’t done this on purpose. He didn’t know he’d done it. In a court of law, Makoto would not have been able to explain how she knew this, and perhaps it was simply blind trust, but she nevertheless knew it with a conviction that did not allow for even entertaining the alternative. His arm laid loosely over her, a casual gesture that was wholly appropriate to a well-established couple at rest. Alarming, yes, but escapable—nonthreatening. Bodily, he wasn’t tightly pressed against her, although she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, setting the fine hairs there on end and sending small shivers down her spine. It made it hard to think.

She first considered attempting to return Akira’s arm to his side without waking him, in the interest of sparing them both embarrassment. Carefully, she attempted to rotate toward the ceiling, where she hoped she might have better maneuverability, but the movement disturbed Akira slightly. He murmured a wordless, sleepy protest and snuggled closer. To her credit, Makoto’s scream was internal.

The arm over her waist tightened—nothing impossible to break free from, but she was no longer sure she could remove it without waking Akira. Bodily, he was now pressed against her back fully, and his face nuzzled into the space between her neck and shoulder. This, above all else, was a problem. Every nerve in her neck had gone on high alert, the signals so loud that she actually wanted to wriggle in closer, to complete the contact, to free herself from the acute awareness of where he did and did not touch by having everything touch. His nose and part of his cheek made full contact, but his lips agonizingly just barely brushed her skin, the breath a warm, regular puff shattering what little calm she’d reclaimed.

Her brain felt full of bees.

Perhaps, she could slip out from his grasp, sleep elsewhere, and explain in the morning with an insomnia excuse. Experimentally, she attempted to slide away, and a sleepy grumble, tiny eyebrow crease, answered her. He pulled her closer. She didn’t resist the tug for fear of waking him, and she felt foolish for ever having entertained the idea that there might be a danger of Akira taking advantage of her. The danger was the other way around; the man had no guard whatsoever.

Only two options left, she managed to think through the brain bees. She could wake him up, put them both through the mortification of recognizing that this had happened, or she could let it happen, go back to sleep, and hope it had resolved itself by morning.

…

There was no conceivable way she could go back to sleep.

“Akira,” she whispered, placing one of her hands on his arm and shaking it. “Akira, wake up.”

He was slow to wake but with some persistence she roused him. Makoto had been staring at him as she hissed for him to wake up, and so when his eyes fluttered open, the first thing he saw was her face mere inches away, attempting to carry an expression of reassurance and understanding, though it in fact resembled distress.

Groggy, Akira’s expression registered confusion first—he wasn’t processing—but as Makoto began to say “Akira, you’re a little too close,” he realized the situation for himself, blind panic overtaking his visage. He practically skittered away, apologies already spilling forth.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she reassured. “That was probably bound to happen.” She tried a laugh.

Akira was mortified. Makoto was not going to be able to fix it. Not at three in the morning.

He got the comforter from the fake bed in the small room, ceding the master bedroom’s original wholly to Makoto. With separate blankets, it was possible to maximize the space between them, but neither party fell back to sleep readily. Makoto could feel the tension in Akira’s body despite being turned away, what felt like miles of mattress between them. The urgency his touch had inspired was dissipating, but the sense of something left tauntingly incomplete lingered, chasing circles in her too-loud mind. Eventually sleep did find her, and when she woke Akira had already dressed, done his hair, and, by the smell, started cooking breakfast.

She readied herself for the day and met him in the kitchen, finding Akira still shaken by the incident. She tried to keep things light, to show that all was fine and forgiven, but he remained awkward. They gathered their things, locked the place up, leaving the keys inside per their instructions, and took off to Kanji’s place. Fortuitously he was ready for them and proceeded with the last fitting as soon as they arrived. Again, Akira was required to strip down for the process, but this time he didn’t joke about Makoto staying to watch, and she took herself out to Kanji’s backyard where a large shed, its doors flung wide, revealed a dyeing operation in full swing, the bolts of cloth appealing even at a distance. Beside the site of industry, a well-maintained and thoroughly labeled garden provided what Makoto thought must be materials for natural dye processes, but beyond that the flower beds had been given over to wildflowers, insects busy among them.

Sitting in the sun on the patio, Makoto sent a text to a group chat with just Ann and Haru which read, “there was only one bed T_T.”

Ann sent a sticker of an absolutely scandalized llama character, followed by the eyes emoji. Haru’s response was an uncharacteristic key smash, and a couple of seconds later she sent, “sorry, I actually yelped…”

> Loversinclover: What happened???
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: I mean not much but last night Akira accidentally spooned? me? So I woke him up and now he’s too embarrassed to look at me.

She added a sticker of a round character in dejected darkness, a leaf rolling past them on a lonely breeze.

> TheFourthMusketeer: Makoto!!!
> 
> Loversinclover: dkhjaklghkfjgfs
> 
> Loversinclover: dkfhaiuethdhfgjadf
> 
> Loversinclover: ksdjafjjkjkdkjkj
> 
> Loversinclover: thats
> 
> Loversinclover: pretty adorable
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: Guys, how do i fix it?
> 
> Loversinclover: kiss him

Makoto almost threw her phone into the shed.

> Loversinclover: jk jk
> 
> Loversinclover: give him a minute
> 
> Loversinclover: he’ll come around just show him nothing’s different

Haru agreed and sent some reassuring words, which helped reduce Makoto’s feeling of agitation. She slipped her phone back into her pocket, and, hearing footsteps approach, turned to see a clothed Akira.

“Kanji’s making a few adjustments and wants me to try it on again after,” he said. “He said it wouldn’t be that long.”

Makoto acknowledged that with a nod and Akira sat beside her on the patio. She could see tension in his shoulders, but some of the pervasive shame had eased from his aspect. Perhaps he and Kanji had talked about it.

They watched a couple of honeybees snoop in Kanji’s marigolds. Akira said, “I’m sorry about last night, and I know you already said it’s okay, but—” He grappled for words, and she waited for him to find them. “I think highly of you. And I feel like I keep messing up. And I don’t want you to think poorly of me. So, I want to apologize again, and promise to do better.”

“Akira, I don’t think badly of you at all. You, fluster me sometimes, but… well, we had a great day yesterday. I mean that, and a simple accident doesn’t change it. I—” Now it was her turn to flounder for words, but he waited for her as she had for him. “I appreciate that you’ve been consistently frank with me. I appreciate how you’ve been considerate when it counts and when it _doesn’t_. I don’t—trust easily. But I do trust you. That’s why I suggested we share at all. I knew you wouldn’t violate that trust, and I know you _didn’t_. I believe you, Akira, without explanation—I mean, I’d rather get one obviously but I don’t _need_ it. You really haven’t done wrong by me. You’ve put me on edge before, but it’s not that I’ve ever felt unsafe with you. Not at all.”

Whatever Akira began to say in response was lost to Kanji’s arrival, calling Akira back in for round two. The second attempt at a fitting went swimmingly. Akira paid the remainder of the commission cost, and Kanji would mail Akira the costume when he’d finished it. They had lunch with Kanji and bid him farewell after helping to clean up, beginning their long ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house we do not accept the suddenly-toeing-the-societal-line versions of Kanji and Naoto put forward by P4:DAN.


	8. Rank 8: Calling Card

Word of the single bed made its way around to all of the Thieves before the next practice, which put Akira out. Ann and Haru had had the good sense to keep the snuggling detail to themselves, for which Makoto was grateful as she had the sense that Akira would have experienced that as a violation of trust. As it was, Ryuji teased the both of them throughout the first practice after their trip, only stopping after a bathroom break with Akira.

The team held their practices more frequently, preparing for the impending annual and its qualifiers. They would need to place in the top three in three upcoming competitions in order to earn a spot in the annual. The Thieves felt confident, prepared for the task ahead, and so when Joker’s costume arrived, with the first of the qualifiers just two weeks away, it felt like a celebration. Akira changed into the costume and walked back into the studio with a character-appropriate swagger, sending a ripple of excitement through the group. Though no one said it, Makoto could almost hear her teammates thinking “oh no, he’s hot” along with her. Akira adjusted his gloves. Makoto became aware of a crush on him.

Ryuji whistled. “Kanji’s a genius.”

“He certainly captured your spark,” Yusuke remarked. Akira grinned in response, almost lopsided, wholly rakish.

Makoto’s hand strayed to her chin in thought. He could have been born in that outfit, it fit him so well. All that was acrobatic, roguish, and seductive in him had been brought to the fore. Already his whole identity seemed to shift with the sparkle in his eyes, but with the costume he felt a new person. The rebel in him was now the only self to be seen in full, dramatic display. It made her want to follow him.

Akira tried a flip, gaining enough momentum to get in a full spin before landing. With the addition of the costume the already impressive feat took on fantastic proportions, and Akira seemed unable to stop grinning, utterly exhilarated. Seeing his glee, the others wished they’d brought their costumes as well, and Futaba soon had a dress rehearsal scheduled for them all.

Akira removed his mask with a flourish and handed it to Yusuke who wanted to examine the construction. The one-handed gesture should have come off as cheesy, but somehow it felt swoon-worthy.

“What if Joker becomes the leader of the Phantom Thieves?” Makoto said.

The others looked at her strangely. “Makoto, you’re the leader,” Ryuji said, confused.

“No, I mean in the narrative. For the next part of the story after Joker joins the Thieves. Not real life.”

They thought about it, each member looking Akira—or rather, Joker—over.

“He’s got the charisma in spades,” Makoto elaborated. “What do you think, Futaba?”

“Hmm… I like it! There’s a bunch of fans who’ve noticed him helping us out at performances, and he’s already pretty popular.”

“I am?”

“Extremely,” Ann laughed.

“What do you think about it, Akira?” Haru asked.

He gave it some consideration but agreed. “If it’ll help the team, I’m game.”

They brainstormed on the details during their warm-up stretches and touched on it several times more throughout the practice. Akira continued to wear the costume, without its mask, adjusting to the feel of it, seeing if there were any last-minute adjustments to take it to Kanji for. There weren’t.

When they wrapped the day’s session, Makoto offered him a ride home on the pretense of keeping the costume safe from the elements within one of Johanna’s saddlebags. She had a little business to take care of with the Dance Complex’s managers regarding their rental of the studio space, so she left Akira to change. When she returned to the studio space, Akira’d swapped out everything except for the vest. It was sleeveless in deference to the close fit on the coat, and the ties Kanji had used in the back were giving him some trouble.

“Here, let me,” Makoto said.

The vest was not a corset—there were no bones of any kind in it, and it didn’t want to be cinched—but aspects of its construction had clearly borrowed from that type of garment. It was laced onto Akira, the ties following his spine, and Makoto recognized that Kanji had threaded the laces in such a way that Akira would be able to loosen it enough to pull it on like a shirt and then pull it tight himself. An earlier version of her own costume had used similar lacing. Theoretically, he would also be able to loosen it on his own, but Akira lacked the practice and had managed to tangle the strings up.

Beneath the vest he wore a thin tanktop per Kanji’s instructions, but it left part of his upper back and neck exposed. Makoto’s fingertips brushed against his skin as she undid the hidden snap closure securing the collar and picked at the strings of the vest proper. He jumped a little at the first touch.

When it was loose enough, she said, “Okay, you should be able to pull it off now.”

Akira murmured a thank you, and Makoto noted the tips of his ears had gone red. She stepped away to pack up some of her own things as he changed shirts, having gone somewhat pink herself.

A misting kind of rain shower kicked up outside, and they hustled to the parking garage, laughing as they dashed the short distance with unnecessary speed. The rain stung only somewhat on the way to Akira’s apartment, and Makoto stepped inside to show Akira the proper maintenance of the costume, and more importantly, to pet Morgana. Akira dutifully followed her instructions, she carrying the cat in her arms to scritch under his chin. When the Joker costume hung in pride of place in Akira’s bedroom, Makoto set Morgana on his bed. She hadn’t actually been in the bedroom before, and she was surprised at its lack of decoration. Almost, she felt as if he didn’t like to be in there, although the only unfortunate aspect of the room that she could identify was that it was dark. It had no windows whatsoever, whereas the rest of the apartment at least had a few at the very top, near the ceiling. On his dresser was a picture of Akira with the Sakuras on what appeared to be a whale watch. Akira looked like he was smiling at the person behind the camera rather than at the camera, and Makoto picked the framed photo up without thinking.

“That was a nice day,” he said, watching her.

“It looks like it.” She set the photo down. Something had put him on edge. “Sorry if I’m being nosy,” she said.

“No, no, it’s fine.”

What she meant to say next was “Well, I should get going anyway” but as she turned to say it, her eyes fell upon another photo behind Akira, pinned to a cork board. It had been torn in half, and the half that remained showed only Akira and Morgana in an unfamiliar setting, but pieces of another person appeared, their arm slung around Akira’s shoulders to dangle in front of his chest, their knee pressed against Akira’s. Something about the hand, specifically the glove it wore—she approached it.

“It’s getting late,” Akira said, and she stopped.

“Oh, you’re right,” she said without bothering to feign sincerity.

When Makoto took her leave, she and Akira hugged at the door. It was a new development, and it felt right. Even so, as she rode back home, the incomplete image floated tauntingly in front of her. She wasn’t sure without looking closely at it, but the glove—it was familiar, wasn’t it?

The remaining weeks passed without incident. The Thieves rehearsed their piece for the first qualifier, which would be the Introduction piece for Joker, allowing all seven members to participate. Makoto rented a van for the day of the competition, simplifying the process of getting everyone and their things to the venue, and Haru prepared the snacks that would get them through a high-energy event. Despite their nerves, the team was excited and in high spirits, although Futaba and Akira seemed a touch sleepy, as if they’d had a late night.

In the dressing room and practice spaces allotted to competitors, the Thieves wrangled on their costumes, few of which were convenient to don. Ann’s costume required a team of women, being covered in zippers and entirely form-fitting, as it was a catsuit. She had to powder the interior to prevent chaffing and ensure she’d be able to get it off later, and several of the zippers keeping it whole were in difficult-to-reach places. Moreover, she couldn’t wear much underneath the latex suit, and so there was a significant amount of costume tape to apply in hopes of preventing accidents.

Haru and Makoto helped her through the process in the women’s dressing room, and when this was done Ann returned the favor by helping Makoto into the black bodysuit that formed the base of her costume, while Haru helped Futaba powder the wetsuit-like leotard that formed the top of hers. Once each of the women had some form of pants and shirt on, they returned to the dance practice space to handle the rest of their costuming, letting their competitors get a chance at the more private dressing room. Ryuji and Yusuke also had one-piece suits to manage, though far less form-fitting, and between the lot of them, a great deal of baby powder was consumed.

The remaining pieces of Makoto’s costume simply had to be put on her by another person, as they were all leather, faux or otherwise, pieces which had to be snapped to each other to remain in place. Her gloves snapped on to a shoulder piece snapped on to a chest piece which snapped on to chaps which snapped on to her boots. The chest piece additionally had a structure not dissimilar to that of a corset, and it wrapped around her abdomen, snapping onto itself. The Thieves liked to joke that the costume was Kanji’s “Snaps Period.” Akira did her the favor of helping her get into the remaining items, which she returned by assisting with his troublesome vest laces.

Her team first caught sight of Akechi’s crew there in the practice space. His group went through their warm-ups on the opposite side of the space, giving the Thieves plenty of time to study their rivals. His was a team of four, and Akechi’s character had changed dramatically. With the Phantom Thieves he had played Crow, who wore a white, military-inspired costume with a red mask reminiscent of a plague doctor. The character had been singularly fixated on justice. His new costume was entirely dark colors, the mask more of a full helmet, adorned with horns, his suit diagonally striped in dark purple and gray. The other members of his team were attired in similarly dark and exaggerated fashion. Makoto didn’t like it, aesthetically speaking. Equally, she didn’t recognize any of his team members.

Akechi smirked—or maybe it was a sneer—when he looked their way, making eye contact with each member he’d previously known—and Akira and Futaba. Makoto glanced at Akira to find that his expression had hardened, and Futaba looked vaguely ill but fierce. Makoto was certain of it then. Sae’s hunch and been right. Akira and Akechi knew each other and, moreover, Makoto _had_ recognized that glove: the person in the torn photo was Akechi. And plainly, Futaba knew him too. But how, and why hadn’t it come up before?

Competition staff summoned the competitors to take their places for their performances, shuffling Akechi’s group away from the Phantom Thieves in the process. The Thieves’ performance occurred halfway through the competition, before Akechi’s by two sets. They watched what they could of the performances prior to theirs, and when the time came did their best with their chosen piece.

The Introduction piece was dynamic, high-energy, and it made good use of their large team size. Its weakness lay in the ways in which Joker was separated from the group throughout the performance. On the streets of Boston, they mitigated the imbalance by having Joker engage with the audience, which not only distracted from potential flaws in the dance itself but also gave him enough to do. On stage, the piece was necessarily weaker; they’d spent a great deal of time choreographing new actions for Joker to take, as competition rules precluded leaving the stage during a performance, and they’d thoroughly polished the other, original elements.

They came off the stage feeling quite good about it. They’d made no mistakes and received enthusiastic applause from the audience. After hydrating, the majority of the Thieves found a vantage at the back of the audience from which they could watch the remaining performances, including Akechi’s. His team’s piece was an electric and somewhat challenging performance which portrayed the battle within the self. Akechi’s character embodied duality and demonstrated an inner conflict in which he was so beholden to his ideals that he lost his sense of self, becoming that which he despised. His teammates similarly portrayed characters whose stories spoke to good intentions gone wrong, and the performance ended on a note which offered a despairing kind of hope. The crowd responded extremely well, granting Akechi’s team the loudest applause yet heard.

Sure enough, Akechi’s team took first place, and the Phantom Thieves found themselves in second. To lose to Akechi stung, even with their placement in the top three. As the Phantom Thieves made their way back to the practice and dressing areas, they did not feel victorious in any way. A solemnness stole over them, although they tried to cheer one another. Makoto resolved to treat the whole team to an early dinner, as a means of softening the blow, but when she turned around to let the others know of this plan, Akira and Futaba were nowhere in evidence. Without a clue as to where they’d gone, the other Thieves decided to change and hope they turned up. “Probably in the bathroom,” Ryuji said.

Exiting the dressing room with Makoto and Haru, Ann sulked, complaining, “Akechi’s costume isn’t even _cool_.”

Makoto chuckled. “I hate to admit it, but they performed well. It’s nothing I expected, but… they did earn it.”

Haru nudged Ann’s shoulder saying, “Don’t get discouraged! We’ve got three more chances to kick their butts!”

Ann smiled at that. “I know it’s mean, but I sort of wish we could _actually_ kick Akechi’s ass.”

Makoto shared a conspiratorial giggle with Ann over this. Coming to the intersection of two hallways, Makoto glanced down the one perpendicular to theirs—and grabbed Ann and Haru, pulling them both back behind the wall.

“Did you see that?” she hissed.

They had. Together, all three women peered around the corner to observe what was, without question, a _very_ bad conversation between Akechi and Akira. Neither man had changed out of his costume, although neither mask nor helmet were in evidence. Akechi’s face bore a condescending sneer which disfigured his otherwise pleasant features into grotesquerie. Akira’s expression could only be hatred.

“It’s very simple,” Akechi stated.

Akira’s eyes narrowed, the thin set of his mouth conveying only disgust. “Not happening.”

Akechi laughed, briefly hitting a wild pitch that made him seem off-kilter. “Are you prepared to accept the consequences, then?”

“I don’t care what you do to me, Goro.”

“How about Makoto?”

Makoto startled from her position around the corner. She could feel that Ann and Haru beside her had had a similar reaction.

Akira’s brows furrowed farther, his mouth opening into a snarl. “Leave the others alone.”

Akechi laughed breathlessly and shook his head. “If you do as I say, there won’t be a problem. Makoto’s reputation remains unsullied.”

Makoto blanched, her mind already grappling after what that could possibly mean. She rifled frantically through the memories she had of Akechi and seized on it with dawning horror. There had been a time when he’d taken explicit pictures of her, without her consent. She wouldn’t have known he’d taken them at all, had his phone been on silent. When she objected, he deleted them—or rather, he said he deleted them. She didn’t see him do it. That had happened right before their relationship fell apart; it was entirely possible he still had them. Makoto felt shaky, as if all the blood had rushed out of her. Ann placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

“You give me what I want, and I’ll _consider_ doing what you want,” Akechi went on breezily.

“Give me your phone, Goro.”

“Oh this?” Akechi pulled the phone from his pocket and flipped it in his hand. “Do you think I’m that careless? None of it’s on this phone.”

“Doesn’t need to be,” Akira said, and he charged Akechi, pinning him against the concrete wall with a bang, bodily holding him there. He ripped the phone from Akechi’s hand and said, “Catch, Oracle” throwing the phone over his shoulder blindly. Futaba, stepping out of the shadow of a nearby door, caught the phone one-handed. She connected it to a wire dangling from the laptop she held open in her other hand and sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Running program!” she said.

“Wha—get off! This is assault!” Akechi scrabbled against Akira’s arm, pressed into Akechi’s chest, but Akira simply pushed more of his weight into Akechi. For a few moments they struggled against each other in this way, and then Futaba called out “Done!” She snapped the laptop shut and handed Akira Akechi’s phone.

“The virus is hitting anything he had connected to the internet,” she told Akira. “Everything’s being deleted, and I watched his home computer’s image files go. If he had back-ups that weren’t online, those still exist, though.”

Akira dropped the phone into Akechi’s pocket. Making sure to keep Futaba behind him, Akira quickly stepped back from Akechi several paces. Akechi stumbled, and the eyes he turned on Akira frightened Makoto, and Futaba, too, judging by the way she flinched. For a moment, Makoto reached for the pistol she carried when working in a dangerous place, but the weapon wasn’t there. The instinct startled her—she had felt sure that Akechi would attempt to strangle Akira. But Akechi composed himself. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, dialed something into it, and said, “Okay then.” He walked away, bringing the phone to his ear. Makoto’s blood ran cold.

“We have about five minutes to get out of Dodge,” Akira told Futaba. “Catch up with the others—power in numbers. If anyone asks, I had a stomachache.” He didn’t wait for her to acknowledge or agree, merely turned on his heel and took off down the hall toward Ann, Makoto, and Haru, who ducked behind the corner just fast enough to avoid his notice. He ran past them and onward towards the building’s exit, which was still a distance away. Futaba came into the intersection at speed, calling after him, but she stopped short where she was, Akira paying her no mind and stripping clothes off as he ran. Exasperated and groaning Futaba turned, plainly meaning to head toward the dressing rooms—and saw her comrades.

“ _Shit_ ,” Futaba swore.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Ann added.

“Look after Futaba!” Makoto instructed Ann and Haru. As Akira had done, she didn’t wait for a response before bolting after him, breaking into a dead run. Behind her, she could hear her teammates shout, but she ignored that. Akira was already out of sight, which meant her ability to help him was dependent on how well she could predict him.

Akechi had called the cops, and he also _was_ the cops, and Akira had a _record_ , and that meant he was in _deep shit_. He needed an alibi. The best thing he could do for himself would be to get in touch with the rest of the team and invent that alibi—in particular to get in touch with _her_ , since she had professional ties to the force. But Makoto wasn’t sure he knew anything about her occupation, and she was pretty sure hiding meekly among them all wouldn’t be his first choice.

He would try to flee the premises entirely. For that, there were three possible exits: the front door or either of two side doors, neither of which she believed he knew about. But given what she’d just seen—that a person she’d believed had no ties to Akechi in fact knew him well enough that Akechi was blackmailing him—wasn’t it reasonable to assume that she was wrong about Akira’s familiarity with the building, too? If so, then the west-facing side door was both closer and less visible to the street.

Makoto swung left, nearly colliding with a pair of dancers, and pounded toward that side door, hoping against hope that her intuition was right. She came crashing out into a blinding ray of sunlight. Akira wasn’t immediately in evidence, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought she’d guessed wrong, but then a heated conversation around the corner of the building caught her attention and she barreled toward it. And there he was, his path blocked by two officers Makoto knew to be friendly with Akechi but who, blessedly, weren’t in uniform. And that meant that Akechi hadn’t called the cops—he’d called his buddies. Relief began to seep into her muscles.

Akira’s posture was rigid. He’d escaped his coat and gloves, but the rest remained. Unexpectedly, his glasses had rematerialized, worn like a defense. The officers were plainly angry with him, and while Akira wasn’t hostile, he wasn’t exactly cooperating either. That raised the danger back up again, and Makoto cursed, putting on a final burst of speed to sprint into the conversation, shocking all three of its participants.

“Niijima, what—” one of the officers began.

“Officer, what’s going on here?” she managed in a not _completely_ breathless fashion.

“Niijima, this is police business—”

“You aren’t in uniform. There’s no patrol car nearby. You’re plainly not equipped for work,” she countered rapidly. “You’re not working right now, so whatever’s happening here, it isn’t police business. Would you care to explain?”

“Niijima, please, this man has been accused of assaulting an officer.”

“When?”

“Uh, just a little bit ago—”

“How long ago, officer?” she pressed. “Given the time required for a call to be received, officers to be dispatched, and to then arrive and find the suspect, the earliest this alleged assault could have occurred would be ten, fifteen minutes ago, at which time this man was in my company, committing no assaults whatsoever.” Cutting off an imminent protest, she went on, “Even if you were in the area, at least five minutes would be required, and he was still in my company at that time.” Daring them to gainsay her, she went on, “Unless you mean to indicate that this assault occurred in the past two minutes, there is no conceivable way this man could be guilty of it—and as there is no conceivable way for you to have arrived here on _official_ business that quickly, there is no conceivable way this man could be involved in the alleged assault. Do you disagree?”

“Miss Niijima, please, we’re just trying to do our job.”

“In that case, officer, I am merely trying to do _mine_. You are familiar with my work, yes?”

The officer flinched. He’d understood the implicit litigious threat.

“As I said,” Akira put in with a steely voice, “I’ve been with my teammates all day today. I was just now running to the convenience store to get some medicine for my sister, who isn’t feeling well.”

“Well what about you then, Niijima?” one of the officers said.

“We’re in the same team,” she said. “One of the others found some medicine, so I was catching up with Akira to call him back, when I saw this.”

The officers looked at one another, deciding.

“Let’s level with each other, shall we?” Makoto said, pulse racing as the two officers turned their attention to her. “We all know why you’re here. We all know it’s nothing to do with the force and everything to do with our mutual friend. We can proceed with his version of events or mine, and I have sufficient evidence to prove mine. The question is whether or not you force me to pit my position against his.”

They bought the bluff. She could see the fear it put into them. Equally, she could feel the terror making that empty threat put into her. One of the officers said, “Alright, Niijima. For the sake of our ‘mutual friend,’ we’ll drop this. Completely.” He looked at Akira. “You’re lucky she showed up.” The two officers turned and left, and when they were completely out of sight Makoto bent double, catching her breath and shaking with the stress she now allowed herself to feel, the immediate danger gone.

“You’re a cop?” Akira said. It was an accusation. Makoto looked at him and saw hurt in his eyes—betrayal.

“No, I’m not,” she said. “I work for a nonprofit.” She took a deep breath and straightened up. Her hands were still shaking. “We investigate incidents of police misusing their power and bring cases against them on behalf of our clients. Specifically, I’m an investigator for the organization. My evidence has put a couple of dirty cops out of work, if not behind bars. It’s hard to put a cop behind bars.” She sighed.

“But you work with cops.”

“Sometimes.” He fixed her with a skeptical look. His hair was stuck to his forehead by sweat. “Okay, most times,” she clarified. “Hell, if we’re being totally frank, I work with Akechi a lot.” Akira flinched. “My job is to fix the system, one case at a time, Akira. My family has a long, long history in law enforcement, and I have a lot of connections to it from school, and family, and work. I use those to my advantage.”

“Akechi,” he said, like it was recently uncovered filth.

“Is an asshole, but an excellent detective who’s been willing to undermine his colleagues for the sake of seeing the system work properly. Whatever his personal flaws are, he does have that one thing going for him. That threat worked because those goons are friends of his and they know I work with him—which means I have the potential to compromise his career. I bluffed, but it was close enough to the truth to work. I get why you’d have an issue with cops, Akira, but I’m _not a cop_.”

“No, you’re just buddies with them,” he spat.

Makoto grabbed him by his vest and pulled him down to her eye level. He made a cursory attempt at resisting, but she was stronger than him. “Akira Kurusu, what the _fuck_ is your deal?”

He grasped her wrist in some surprise, but his anger reduced only slightly. He said, “Close involvement with cops hasn’t exactly worked out for me.”

“Well it’s a good fucking thing I’m not a cop then!”

“The vest’ll tear.”

She let go. “Don’t be an asshole to me because someone else was an asshole to you,” she said.

“It’s just—a shock.”

“Explain.”

He gestured broadly. “You’re the leader of a group that promotes a message of rebellion, but you’re out here working within the system, playing buddy-buddy with the bad guys, working with fucking _Akechi_ of all people—it’s hypocritical.”

“There are far more ways to effect change than tearing everything down and starting over—as you well know,” she said. “I’m trying to fix it from within the system, yes, but I am _trying to fix it_. I’m using the resources I was given _to fix it_ instead of to _be_ it like was expected of me. Are you really going to pretend that getting charges brought up against corrupt cops is remotely the same as being one of those cops?”

“Does it work?” he asked.

“Are you in cuffs right now?”

He made a sound that was not quite a laugh and looked away. There was a sketch of a smile on his face, albeit one tainted by frustration. “Fair point.”

A couple of cars whizzed by and their phones buzzed simultaneously. They both checked them, finding messages in the group chat.

> Loversinclover: did u catch up???
> 
> Alibaba: got akira’s stuff
> 
> TheFourthMusketeer: You’re alright, right??
> 
> TrackPunk420: wait what
> 
> TrackPunk420: Did something happen???

Akira stared at his phone in disbelief. “Are the Phantom Thieves just completely incapable of keeping secrets?”

Makoto smiled weakly, exhausted to her core. “Yeah. We’re bad at that.”

> TheMaidenAnat: Everything’s under control.
> 
> WildCardFool: thanks Futaba

Their phones continued to vibrate, but they both put them away, looking one another in the eye. The anger had gone, but the tension remained.

“You’re apparently good at secrets,” Makoto said. “You know Akechi.”

He weighed her for a moment, but admitted, “Yeah. We dated for a while.” Makoto had no intention of asking, but he satisfied her curiosity anyway. “I’m bi.”

She nodded. She’d had no idea Akechi was into men. After this and Haru, she wasn’t sure she knew what anybody was. Maybe it didn’t matter.

“I happened to walk by with Ann and Haru and see you fighting,” she explained. “Futaba’s not responsible here. You ran right past us.”

He groaned and put a hand to his face, pushing his glasses into his hair. “I wanted to take care of this quietly.”

“So far ‘this’ is something I had no idea about, even though it apparently involves me. Will you explain it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will. Let me… get my stuff, get changed, maybe get home. We could talk there?”

She agreed, and they made their way to the rental van and the team, texting the rest of the Thieves their updates as they walked.


	9. Rank 9-A: Justice and The Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hail!
> 
> As last chapter involved blackmail and cops, perhaps you can infer that things are continuing to get heavy. Sexual assault will be referenced in this chapter (and also more blackmail).
> 
> Additionally, I've split this chapter into two sections, with the second part (Rank 9-B) being the sexy part. Rank 9-B is not the single promised sex scene, but it is very foreplay-like, so I wanted to give folks a chance to opt out.
> 
> If you are choosing to opt out, here is what you'll miss:  
> \- Makoto gets rid of the rule about no dating in the troupe.  
> \- Akira and Makoto become romantically/sexually involved but decide to postpone deciding about formally being a couple.  
> \- Consent is sexy.

Taking everyone out to eat and dropping everyone off at their respective homes provided all the time Akira and Makoto needed to explain the gist of what had happened to their companions. After all, Ann and Haru had already spilled the beans. That Akira’s explanation boiled down to a rather detail-scarce “Akechi is also my ex and he wouldn’t delete my nudes, so me and Futaba decided to do something about it” was not lost on Makoto, but either that explanation on its own or the completely exhausted way in which he said it prevented further questions from their teammates, and for that Makoto was grateful. Akira could share the full story with them later—after he’d told _her_ about her own business first.

With everyone returned home, Makoto brought the rental back to its parking lot. Johanna awaited her there, and she and Akira rode the motorcycle back to his place where they each took the opportunity to freshen up after a long and sweaty afternoon by showering and putting on lounge clothes—although Makoto was obliged to borrow some of Akira’s. Akira put her clothing in the washer in his kitchen while she showered, so that she could at least leave in something fresh. When she exited the shower and he went in, she took care of Queen’s costume. Akira had already sorted out Joker’s. His shower took a little longer than Queen’s maintenance, and so Makoto settled on the couch, Morgana quickly arriving in her lap as she curled up there. At first browsing the internet on her phone, she soon began to doze in the corner of the couch.

The sound of Akira exiting the bathroom roused her enough to open her eyes a crack. Akira toweled his hair as he walked into the living room area. He paused and, thinking himself unobserved, smiled with a warmth and affection that Makoto found contagious. She shook off her sleepiness—but not the cat—while Akira made coffee for the both of them. He abandoned the towel on the back of a chair and placed a mug directly into her hands, now that she was visibly awake. He turned on a Bluetooth speaker, grabbed his laptop and his own coffee, and sat on the couch. From the laptop he selected a livestream playing chillhop continuously, the stream’s video showing an animated racoon having a very relaxing time. The music was soothing, as was the warm mug and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Makoto huddled in the corner of the couch with her back to a pillow wedged up against its arm, her legs a cradle for a snoozing Morgana. Akira sat on the couch in the intended way, but he left his mug on the table and let the couch take his full weight, resting his head on its back, his eyes closed. Without her prompting, he began to explain what had happened.

“I knew your Goro Akechi and my Goro Akechi were the same person right away,” he admitted. “I didn’t bring it up at the time because he was obviously a sore subject for everyone, and I was new enough to feel worried about upsetting people. I should have said something, but I didn’t, and later it felt too late. If I understand the timeline right, I dated Goro maybe six months after your breakup.” He smiled ruefully. “I say ‘dated,’ but it was more like a torrid, sexual affair. Either way, we wound up hating each other.”

Makoto adjusted her legs to try to prevent Morgana’s weight from putting them to sleep. “Just to be clear: only tell me what you’re comfortable with. I think some of it I have a right to know about, but you have a right to your privacy, too,” she said.

He grinned and looked at her sidelong, around his glasses. “That’s not very police-like.”

She jabbed him with her foot, laughing.

He chuckled with her but shook his head. “I’ve kept these things to myself to help the team feel comfortable, not to help me feel comfortable.”

“You don’t talk about yourself much,” Makoto observed.

He agreed. “I never feel like there’s much to say about me.”

“If it’s any comfort, I don’t think you’re an enigma, once someone’s put in the effort to pay attention.” She sipped from her mug, peering at him over it.

Akira rearranged himself on the couch, putting his back against its other arm to face her, his knees bent up before him. He set his glasses aside. Which was weird because it felt like he’d done it to remove an obstruction.

“Are you near-sighted or far-sighted?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Akira laughed, that wicked smirk of his crawling right back onto his face. “Neither. I don’t need them to see. It’s just regular glass in there.”

Her jaw dropped, which got him laughing, hard.

“It’s like with the hair,” he explained further, once he’d stopped laughing. “But more than that, I wear them to blend in. I started doing that after the arrest in high school. At the time, it felt like a way to hide. I guess it still is.”

“So, you’ve decided not to hide right now.”

He winked.

“Akira Kurusu’s AMA?” she teased.

He snickered at that, but agreed that yes, it was.

Makoto sipped her coffee, composing her thoughts into some sort of order. “You and Futaba planned that confrontation with Akechi, correct?”

“Yes. I knew he had compromising photos of me, and Futaba and I had talked about doing something about it. We weren’t really worried about blackmail or anything like that, though. At least not at the time. We just didn’t like that he had them.”

“Did he… take them without your consent?”

“Some. Others were things I’d sent him while we were seeing each other. Talk about regrets.”

Makoto gave him a tight but sympathetic smile.

Akira continued, “Things between Akechi and me… in the end I ghosted him. I didn’t think I had another option, but it was enough to make him hate me, I think. When he realized I’d cut him off without a word, he sent me a little SD card full of all the images and video he had of me, threatened to put it out into the world. I ignored it, at first, and he didn’t actually act on the threat. No idea why. Since the Sakuras had met him, I warned them to keep away from him, and Futaba wanted to know why. When I explained it, she got mad at me for ignoring the problem.”

“I think I agree with her,” Makoto said.

“Thought you might. Well, she convinced me, but I didn’t think he’d just delete all of it because I asked him to. I don’t know if you know this, but Futaba’s an amazing programmer. She figured that that was how we were going to get rid of the photos. But you know how thorough Goro usually is. He probably had back-ups so if we did it a little at a time, breaking into things one by one, he’d just retaliate, which meant finding a way to get all of it at once. So Futaba decided to build a virus, just for Goro. It would delete every image and video file on every device he owned that had an internet connection. It took her a long time to build it. It wasn’t ready to use until after I’d joined the team, and then you mentioned he’d joined a team. It makes sense now that I know what you do, but at the time I had no idea how you knew that.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide my job,” she told him. “It just never came up.”

“No, I understand that. My cop baggage isn’t yours to unpack.” He poked one of her feet with one of his. “I overreacted earlier because I was already frazzled. I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

“Forgiven,” she reassured him. “Sorry about this whole mess.”

He laughed. “Not yours to apologize for.” There was a pause, not uncomfortable but full of tacit questions. Makoto prompted Akira to continue, which he did. “With the info you gave us, Futaba and I figured we’d run into him at the qualifier, so we planned to handle it then. I decided to give him one chance to delete everything—I had a little leverage on him, too, and I was pretty sure he didn’t realize that. If he still wouldn’t delete the photos, then I’d take his phone off him, and we’d run the virus.”

The hands on her coffee mug felt clammy. There were so many ways this Batman gambit of Akira’s could have gone wrong. Akira’s eyes focused on his knees while he tugged a lock of stray hair. He was back in the events he was describing, not there on the couch with her.

“We decided not to loop anyone else in, in case something went wrong. The less you knew, the safer you’d all be, was the idea. I called him to that spot by implying I had dirt on him—which I do. When I explained what that dirt was, and what I wanted him to do, he got angry and indicated that he had compromising photos of _you_ , tried to say he’d get rid of all of it if I deliberately made us lose the next qualifier.” He paused. “Futaba and I didn’t know he had anything on you before then, Makoto. We would have told you if we had.”

His expression looked pained. She believed him, and so she said, “I trust you” and urged him to continue.

“That caught me off guard—as a threat it worked and put us at an impasse. And I was _angry_. I was fine taking the risk of him releasing the stuff he had of me—and I honestly didn’t think he’d do it—but I wasn’t willing to risk you. I don’t know if he was bluffing or not. I don’t know if he would have done anything or not. I decided to just get the phone, use the virus. That’s what we did.”

“Akira, he’s a _detective_.”

“Yeah, he never told me about his work when we were together. We didn’t know about it until Futaba got most of the way through making the virus.”

“That virus probably deleted government documents!”

“No. Futaba only targeted images and video, and when we realized what he did for work, she tried to keep his work profiles out of it. Even if it did delete police files, he won’t be able to prove it without bringing the law down on himself too.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I still have my leverage against him. It’s not embarrassing photos, it’s criminal in nature. I feel pretty confident there. On top of that, Futaba’s a genius at this stuff. She knew about the risk so she built the virus carefully; it won’t trace back to her. He could try to say ‘hey these guys attacked me’ but I deliberately chose a part of the building that didn’t have security cameras, and again, he’d be opening himself up to criminal charges based on what I have. Given that he called his buddies, and that you were able to get them to back off, I don’t think he’ll take that risk.”

“Akira, this is an enormous gamble.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I got arrested for fixing what the system won’t,” he said. The rakish smile carved into his face was a challenge.

She felt the energy drain from her limbs. “You were just going to let it happen.”

“I mean, no, but I’d accepted that it might.”

“What about Futaba?”

“She felt the same way about it. I also didn’t think he’d go after her. I’m the one he hates.”

“You are so lucky that I got there in time,” she groaned, putting her hand over her eyes.

“I didn’t and I don’t expect you to fix this, Makoto,” he said. “I appreciate the save, but you don’t need to stick your neck out for me.”

The fury was instant. She slammed her mug on the coffee table, which startled Akira and scared Morgana off her lap. That was good because Makoto lurched forward, onto her knees, and advanced on Akira. He was in no position to slip away without a feat of acrobatics, although he instinctively pressed back against the couch’s arm as she got close enough to jab him in the chest with one finger.

“You think I’m just going to sit back and let you ruin your lives? Bullshit! Is this some sort of low self-esteem baggage talking or do you actually think it’s even remotely acceptable to tell me not to protect you?”

“But your career—” he began.

She leaned into his space harder, taller. “Means nothing if I can’t even keep one masked vigilante out of harm’s way for putting a corrupt cop in his place!” She braced her hips against his knees and slammed her hands to either side of him on the couch’s arm. “Career?” she shouted. “Do you think a career matters half as much as your fucking life?”

“Mak—”

“I WILL NOT watch you get locked up over some stupid nudes!”

“Makot—”

“Andl—”

“MAKOTO!”

“WHAT?”

“Could you back up a little?”

The words, so fragile, cut through her rage, and she realized that she’d pinned him to the couch, beneath her. His ears had gone pink and his cheeks were flushed, his pupils dilated. The pulse in his neck was racing—she could see it.

She wasn’t sure she could get out of the position without making it worse.

“Uh,” Makoto said unhelpfully. She tried putting a hand on the back of the couch for balance. “Um,” she added uselessly. Her other hand went on his knee. “Okay,” she mumbled absently, using the couch and Akira’s knees to rock herself back onto her own legs. She more or less flopped into a seated position across from him, and he brought his knees closer to his body.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“Mostly.”

“Sorry.”

He smiled, brows still uncertain. “Forgiven.”

Had her clothes not been making their way through Akira’s laundry machine, Makoto would have made an excuse to leave at that juncture. As it was, she excused herself to the bathroom where she groaned into her hands and called herself stupid a few times. When her mortification had passed and she returned to the living room, she found Akira with his head pressed against his knees. It shot back up as she came up behind him. He had the air of someone hastily putting their composure back on. Makoto sat on the couch primly.

“I guess we’re even now?” she said.

The comment surprised him, which made him chuckle, and that made them both feel better.

“Even,” he agreed. “Just can’t hang out without an incident, can we?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

He refilled their coffees with decaf this time, calling it a peace offering. The washer finished, and he transferred the laundry into the dryer. Feeling mildly domestic, the pair settled on the couch in a more traditional position, closer to what its manufacturer intended. Morgana, who’d fled to the bedroom when Makoto slammed her mug down, made his way back into the living room, hopping into a vacant chair to sleep rather than sit with them.

“Is it still Akira AMA hours?” Makoto asked lightly.

“For you, your highness, they never stop.”

“Oh gross, don’t ‘your highness’ me.”

Akira chortled. “What’s on your mind?”

"What do you have on Akechi?”

“Ah.” He looked into the middle distance long enough that she thought he wouldn’t answer. “He didn’t listen when I said ‘no.’ And he filmed it. And it was on the SD card, which came with a threatening note in his handwriting. And he didn’t realize what he’d given me until I pointed it out to him today.”

“He—”

“Doesn’t understand consent,” Akira said flatly. “A video of one man screaming for another man to stop fucking him put it into perspective for him.”

It hit Makoto like a shell. She’d heard things, worse things, in the course of her work, felt anger and sympathy and cried bitter tears for the victims she spoke with, but to hear it from Akira, about someone she’d once loved, was something else entirely. She couldn’t formulate a response. Akira stood up and wandered over to Morgana to pet him.

No verbal response was going to be adequate. Makoto got off the couch too, approached Akira, and hugged him from behind. He put a hand on one of the arms wrapped around him, and when she let go he turned to face her. The dullness that had entered his eyes as he answered had left, replaced by a sorrow which prompted her to take his hands and squeeze.

“Thanks,” he said.

She acknowledged that with a shake of her head. Anger and sadness were vying for a place in her chest. It felt like being in mourning. “This might sound insensitive,” Makoto said.

“Try me.” Akira’s Joker smirk arrived at small scale, not quite connecting with his eyes.

“You still have the SD card? Or at least that video?”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because my job is to get bad cops kicked out of the force, behind bars when we can. I might be able to use it to do that.”

Akira’s expression crumpled in on itself, some combination of pain and gratitude taking precedence. He hugged her fiercely, one hand on the back of her head, and she reciprocated by wrapping her arms around him once more. She could feel him quivering a little, and she heard his breath rattle through him. When he’d calmed down somewhat, he let her go.

“Let me think about it,” Akira said. “I don’t know that I want to open it all up again. We’ve just ended it.”

“I’d like to see him ruined,” Makoto admitted, “but this is your battle. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Thank you,” Akira said.

The dryer’s buzzer sounded, startling both of them, chasing the sadness away with its brazen shock. Her clothes were done. She no longer had a practical reason to stay. Holding her now-folded, very warm clothes, Makoto hesitated.


	10. Rank 9-B: Justice and The Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hail!
> 
> I've split this chapter into two sections, with the second part (Rank 9-B) being the sexy part. Rank 9-B is not the single promised sex scene, but it is very foreplay-like, so I wanted to give folks a chance to opt out.
> 
> If you are not choosing to opt out:  
> \- Most of this is not actually sex, but I hope you will be titillated nonetheless.
> 
> If you are choosing to opt out, here is what you'll miss:  
> \- Makoto gets rid of the rule about no dating in the troupe.  
> \- Akira and Makoto become romantically/sexually involved but decide to postpone deciding about formally being a couple.  
> \- Consent is sexy.

It was late into the night now, but it was also Saturday. Makoto didn’t have work in the morning, so the time didn’t really matter. Sae was away at a conference, so no one expected Makoto to be back tonight. They didn’t have pets, and their few plants wouldn’t need watering for a few days yet.

She didn’t want to leave Akira alone, and she didn’t want to go, either. The giddy, electric feeling had crept into the room, despite all they’d discussed, despite the exhaustion they should have felt.

“Do you have work tomorrow?” Akira asked, looking at her curiously.

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

The sense of danger, of something teetering on an edge, ready to fall, increased. Makoto put the pile of clothes on the coffee table slowly, thoughtfully, as if in a trance.

“Morgana’s going to sit on those if you leave them there,” Akira said. He sounded closer—she wasn’t looking at him.

“He’d sit on them if I wore them too,” she said, her eyes staying on the pile. Morgana yawned, loud in the taut air.

“Would you like to stay?” Akira asked, and Makoto looked at him. There were the sharp eyes—reading—his lips parted just slightly—hopeful—and the hand tugging at that lock of hair—nervous—while the other hid in his pants pocket.

“Yes,” Makoto said.

The subsequent smile lit up his whole face. He released the lock of hair, straightening up.

There was relief in the clear answer, but the air between them still felt taut to the point of breaking, and Makoto had by now sat in tension with Akira too often to be unaware that doing nothing solved nothing, to be ignorant of the fact that they harbored similar feelings toward one another. She took a step closer to Akira, touching the arm at his side. Her momentum did not quite stop there, although she proceeded with caution.

She watched the touch run through Akira and pressed her advantage, a smile not exactly politic settling, undeterrable, onto her features as she looked up at him, her head tilted very slightly. Something of Queen blazed up like fire in her chest, bringing forth a wild exhilaration that had no place among the everyday detritus of Akira’s apartment. And she could see Joker creeping into Akira’s face and posture as well, the rapscallion smile cracking into place, even as his eyes widened, locked with hers. The arm she held moved, its hand finding a place on her waist, even as she pushed him, with the pressure of her will more than physical force, into the wall behind him.

He backed into it with enough speed to make a sound that woke Morgana, who yawned at them and went back to sleep. A gasp escaped Akira as he hit the wall, but his grasp on Makoto strengthened, and her own momentum carried her into him, her free arm braced against the wall. Her eyes flicked to his lips.

The kiss originated with Akira, but Makoto intensified it, and when they parted, she discovered that she now held his face between her hands, her body sufficient to keep him trapped against the wall. She had, in fact, pushed a leg between his, and Akira bent forward into her, the hands that had been at her waist now arms wrapping her.

They kissed again, Akira’s embrace tightening, and on the third, he reversed their positions, spinning them until Makoto’s was against the wall, with an unexpected squeak in her voice, her arms swiftly pinioned above her head by Akira’s hands, the loom of his body casting them both into shadow. A thrill ran through Makoto—it didn’t much matter that she could break his grip if she wanted; the sensation of restriction and resistance was still intoxicating—and Akira’s steel eyes, partly obscured by a curtain of painstakingly messy hair, showed a desire by now well-established, his mouth smiling the same hunger. She could only imagine how flushed she must look, could only guess at the ferocious anticipation conveyed in her face.

In contrast to the force he exerted on her, his next kiss was soft, meltingly so. He caught her mouth with his, but at a slight distance, enticing her to crane forward in chase, which in turn made him grin, then press in, the whole of his body following in a gently applied, firm pressure.

If Makoto had been able to think before, she certainly could not now. She emitted a small, involuntary sound as Akira pulled away, almost sighing himself.

He released her wrists, to her dismay, and stepped away—even worse. An improvement: his right hand caressed her cheek, and she pressed against his palm, her own hand moving to cover his.

“We should talk first,” he said. His voice was close to a whisper, husky, the same flush in his skin.

Makoto shifted into amusement. “That’s so responsible, I feel like I should be the one saying it.” Akira laughed, rewarding the comment with a swift kiss, but nevertheless he insisted they sit on the couch and talk.

“First,” he said, “I am afraid our team leader made a rule, and so our love can never be.”

Makoto put her head in her hands dramatically, groaning, “It’s come to this. My principles against my desires.”

“I can only guess which will win,” Akira chuckled.

She snatched up her phone from the table, meeting his eyes to say, “Desires. I had already agreed to get rid of it, after all.”

“A wise choice,” Akira agreed.

> TheMaidenAnat: last rule’s abolished

Both of their phones buzzed several times thereafter, but neither of them checked the messages.

“Next issue?” Makoto prompted helpfully.

“What… would we be to each other?” His hand had once again strayed to the lock of hair in his bangs. “If this happened, I mean.”

Makoto processed that question slowly because she hadn’t actually thought about it at all. On some level she simply assumed that the only possible answer was a long-term, romantic relationship, but of course it was not the only arrangement available. She didn’t quite manage to articulate the scope of that thought in words, but Akira had been reading her face, and said, “It’s okay if you haven’t really thought about it.”

“Is it?”

He shrugged with a casual air that wasn’t reflected in the rest of his body. “It just means we don’t go any further until we figure it out.”

She briefly reflected that his self-control was greater than hers and also might be the death of her.

“Let’s table that for now,” Akira said. “I’d rather you have a chance to think about it.”

Makoto agreed and asked, “Was there anything else?”

Akira grinned wickedly. “What are you into?”

That caught Makoto wholly off-guard and at first she didn’t know what he meant. When he clarified that he intended for them to negotiate what was on and off the table for them in a bedroom sense, Makoto went scarlet and had to acknowledge that this was also a topic she hadn’t given much thought.

Akira seemed to see that as cute, or at least excellent fodder for teasing her, given the way his eyebrows quirked and mischief played about his mouth. “Should we take a quiz?”

“What, like a personality quiz?” She was flustered.

“More like, here’s stuff people are into, rate them on a scale of ‘yes please’ to ‘never ever.’” He pulled his computer closer so that she could see the screen easily and brought up a pdf document headed “Yes, No, Maybe List.” Scanning it, Makoto discovered a vast collection of items, ranging from acts she fundamentally assumed would occur and indeed already had—like physical touch itself—to things she felt were extremely kinky—like waterworks, which was a topic she’d once had to learn about for work. Each line item broke down the act into giving and receiving, so that it was possible to indicate one’s willingness to perform the act separately from one’s willingness to be subjected to it. Every item in the list was to be marked with Yes, No, or Maybe. The Yes and No were clear-cut, but Maybe offered nuance—it could be a truly neutral response as well as a soft yes or no. It allowed room for discussion, which Akira indicated as being the point.

“This whole exercise is about consent,” he said. “The idea is to discuss everything up front, agree on the rules, basically. Any time there’s a Maybe, we talk about it, make sure we understand what we’re both comfortable with. If we’ve already talked about everything, then there’s not room for accidentally making someone feel uncomfortable or unsafe.”

“This is completely new to me,” Makoto said, “but I like it. It’s smart.”

Since she was game to give it a try, Akira printed a couple of copies of the list, gave her a pen, and set to filling out his copy. Makoto was obliged to research a great many items on the list, quickly filling her phone’s history with phrases and results she hoped no one would ever see, much to Akira’s amusement. It took her substantially longer to complete her list than it took him, but he helped her by explaining the concepts she was unfamiliar with more clearly whenever the internet provided an unclear, inaccurate, or unnuanced explanation—which was often.

Slowly, Akira’s calm and casual demeanor around the bevy of sexual subjects reduced Makoto’s own nerves regarding the topic. She was accustomed to treating such things as taboo, items which either could not be discussed at all or could only be discussed lasciviously with loud praise. Akira spoke of them in neither fashion, simply using the same tone he used for any other subject. His attitude removed all trace of pressure from the conversation; she didn’t feel like they were talking about it because he wanted something from her. They were just talking about it.

They compared their results, which were in a surprising amount of alignment, primarily varying in intensity of response to each item rather than in openness to specific activities. The conversation each Maybe and spot of difference inspired was at times embarrassing to Makoto but shockingly easy to have, even with that. Akira’s relaxed and undemanding composure persisted, keeping the discussion clean and open. To talk about sex with someone who approached the topic with curiosity was wholly different than to talk about it with someone who _expected_ something of her, whether that was a particular type of response or a particular, actionable result. Whatever Akira wanted, he wasn’t making it her problem.

Talking through the entire list was, however, time-consuming, and by the time they’d finished with it, they were both too fatigued to stay up any longer.

“I do have an air mattress,” Akira told her, “and this futon is pretty comfy to sleep on. But I’m afraid there’s only one bed.” He grinned toothily.

Makoto laughed with him. “We’ve solved that problem before.”

Akira’s was a double bed, and Makoto elected to sleep in the borrowed lounge things. There would be no room to avoid contact in the night, but it was no longer clear that there was a need to, so they didn’t bother trying. Akira offered Makoto a shoulder, and she cuddled up next to him, his arm around her and hers draped across his stomach. She felt a touch shy about it, but she was too tired to really worry over it. Propriety was powerless in the face of exhaustion.

They talked a little, Akira dropping off mid-anecdote. Makoto listened to the rhythm of an Akira at rest, soon drifting off as well. She woke only once that night, when Morgana stomped all over her in an effort to settle on Akira’s legs for a nap.

When Makoto woke in the morning, she found that she’d rolled over at some point in the night, and Akira was once again curled against her back, loosely holding her. It inspired no alarm this time, except in that his mouth and breath were once again close enough to her neck to cause a rising agitation and a growing need for sustained contact. Failing to learn the lesson of the last time, she tried to wriggle away so as to avoid waking him, and as before this merely encouraged him to draw her closer, the lips that now grazed her neck driving cognitive thought right out of her head, leaving only an agony of incomplete sensation, tantalizing and desired.

Skipping the other steps she’d tried before, Makoto resorted to waking him, which did not work because this time, he was already awake. And so when she hissed, “Akira, wake up!” he said, “Nope,” and the movement of his lips across her skin sent such tremors through her, she felt likely to shatter like ceramic. She tried to turn to look at him, exclaiming, “How long have you been awake?” but his draped arm pulled tight over her waist, the other managing to sneak under her to cross her chest and clasp her shoulder, forcing her to conform to the curve of his body. He kissed her neck with steady deliberation, a hint of tongue complicating the texture of the action, and that was the limit for Makoto’s faculties. An actual moan slipped out, which she futilely tried to muffle with the only hand that could reach her mouth. She felt him grin, which also didn’t help.

He made another pass, nipping gently, and was rewarded with a gasp, or something like one—it had a bit of a yelp in it.

“You said you didn’t want to go farther,” she whined. She didn’t mean to whine, but there was no helping it.

“I was thinking this was about where we got to before,” he said into her shoulder.

“Are you just teasing me?” The smile she could feel gave her all the answer she needed. “Akira, that’s bordering on cruel.”

“True.” He eased away from her neck and loosened his grip on her, though he did not fully let go. “Eggs for breakfast?”

It was at this moment that Makoto understood the full value of the Yes, No, Maybe List. Beyond its highly responsible use as a tool of consent, beyond the healthy communication practices it encouraged, and beyond the good sex it surely fostered, it was a list of weaknesses, and Akira’s guard had just dropped.

“Sounds good,” Makoto said as she exerted the full extent of her core strength to flip free of Akira’s grasp, push his back flat to the bed, and pounce atop him, using her legs to keep him in place as she first kissed his mouth and then moved south, following the line of his jaw down his neck to his collar bone where the existence of his shirt forced her to stop. The process got a rise out of him in more ways than one, and the small exclamations he made along the way were well worth the early morning athletics. Raising her head to see his face, her own expression smug, she was delighted to see he had quickly become a mess, quite helpless in the face of such attentions. The thrill of power that accompanied this observation prompted her to add another layer of kisses, taking her time about it to appreciate the vocalizations they elicited.

Abruptly, she rolled off of him and out of the bed. “Breakfast then?”

Panting just slightly he said, “Point taken.”


	11. Rank 10: Social Links

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's fluff.

In the wake of the first qualifier, the Phantom Thieves bent all their energy toward perfecting the Joining piece, which would be their piece for the second competition. Desirous of outside opinions, Akira attempted to contact Igor several times, but all calls and texts went unanswered. In a final bid, Akira decided to ride the Blue Line to Wonderland.

“Every time I’m on the Blue Line, I see Igor,” Akira explained. “If I’m going toward Wonderland, we’re in the same car. If it’s the other way, he’s in a different car.”

This struck Makoto as superstitious, but she accompanied him on his ride nonetheless, mainly because she wanted to spend some time with him. Having spoken of her intention, the other Thieves politely declined to join, even Ryuji who had previously been enthusiastic about the idea. This wasn’t the first time her teammates had behaved oddly recently. Ever since she curtly eliminated the relationship rule, the Thieves had surreptitiously—or as subtly as they were capable of—tried to leave Akira and Makoto alone together. Although, now that she thought about it, Ann and Haru had been left alone together quite a bit also. In fact, Ryuji had all but dragged Makoto out of a room on one occasion.

Makoto supposed this outcome was entirely her fault. The messages that had followed her pronouncement had been variations on surprise and celebration, but they’d also been the same question several times over—why? Why now? Why suddenly? Neither Makoto nor Akira had made any appearance in the group chat until the next day, at which point Makoto provided a largely honest but ultimately unsatisfying explanation.

> TheMaidenAnat: This was a long time coming.
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: We’ve talked about getting rid of it before, but I resisted out of selfishness.
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: and for that I am sorry.
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: That rule was unfair of me. And it was past time it should go.
> 
> TheMaidenAnat: Sorry to do it suddenly. It was just time.

She could see how the team had concluded that she and Akira had become an item, and they weren’t exactly wrong about it. While she and Akira had yet to resolve their relationship status, the other team members certainly had made up their minds about it. Perhaps they thought they were being polite to a new couple, or perhaps they were trying to encourage them to become a couple. It would get old eventually, but so far Makoto didn’t mind.

As Akira predicted, Igor was on the Blue Line, sharing a car with them as they rode toward Wonderland. They only noticed him when the train’s doors had closed, despite the only other passengers in the car being a gaunt blind man carrying a keyboard and a slim woman with tall, black-and-white hair, carrying amplifiers.

Akira approached and greeted Igor as the train started moving, taking a place across from him. Makoto followed suit. Igor greeted them in his peculiar, sing-song voice, and after a short exchange of pleasantries, Akira explained that they’d come for advice. “We thought you might have some ideas,” he said.

“I understand your, predicament. You have conferred with your social links?”

“Of course,” Akira replied with a roguish grin. He inclined his head toward Makoto.

“Ah, the Priestess arcana,” Igor tittered. “I have been observing your progress. By fusing a more powerful persona, you will be able to overcome this challenge.”

Akira hunched forward, chin in hand. “Fusion and personas,” he murmured. Turning to Makoto he said, “Maybe we can adjust the piece, give it a little more flavor and make better use of the team’s size. Right now we _happen_ to be seven. There might be a way to make being seven into a core strength.”

“Hm, we’ve struggled with that in the past, but I’ve seen some videos lately with larger groups that were very compelling. Perhaps we can use them for inspiration,” Makoto said. Igor spoke exclusively in metaphor, it seemed, and Makoto was not sure he’d given advice so much as said some things that happened to get Akira thinking. Whatever the case, it was working, so she decided not to question it. Certainly, she didn’t want to balk at it in front of Igor. His eyes appeared to be bulging out of his head, and she hadn’t seen him blink yet. It was unsettling.

Akira concurred and to Igor said, “Any other advice?”

“You are like the number zero… empty, yet full of infinite possibilities.”

Akira nodded and thanked Igor. At the next station, he and Makoto left the train and hopped on the next one heading back into town. They didn’t see Igor on the platform at any point, but nonetheless he was on the train again, in a different car from them, as they traveled inbound.

“How is he there,” Makoto said.

Akira shrugged. “That’s just how Igor is.”

“What, a trans-dimensional, cryptic advice machine?”

Akira laughed.

“I’m surprised you got something out of what he said,” she added.

“It’s just what came into my mind as he was talking. Want to go to the Aquarium?”

Makoto recovered from the minor whiplash quickly and agreed to go. “Where’d that come from?”

“It’s got a Blue Line stop, we’re already out, and it’d be nice to take you on a date.”

“Oh.” The word _date_ processed at a delay. “Oh!”

He leaned toward her, a rakish expression poorly disguised by bangs and glasses. “Is that okay?” Makoto flustered somewhat but confirmed that it was absolutely okay, and Akira smiled brightly, leaning back into his seat with a self-satisfied air.

As with many standard Boston activities, Akira had not been to the New England Aquarium before, and so they spent five solid minutes with the harbor seals in the outdoor enclosure on the building’s exterior, and a good seven on the penguins occupying the majority of the building’s ground floor. The penguin exhibit smelled like birds, and so the Aquarium smelled like birds, but visitors stopped noticing it after a few minutes, and Akira never remarked on it. Although, he did betray himself with a schoolboy giggle when one of the penguins pooped on one of the other penguins. This was not an infrequent occurrence in the penguin enclosure.

A multi-story, vertical column of a tank rose from the first floor to the top of the Aquarium, a ramp spiraling around it for visitors to peer in at the plethora of aquatic life it contained. At the top, the tank was open, and guests who climbed that high could look down onto the rays and turtles that tended to lurk near the surface of the tank. Other exhibits were arranged on floors spoking off of the central hub formed by the column.

Makoto and Akira proceeded by exploring each floor thoroughly, taking the ramp to the next floor and admiring the central tank’s contents as they climbed. The Aquarium was blissfully and unusually empty. Families formed the bulk of their fellow visitors, rather than gaggles of kiddos on field trips, and Makoto and Akira took their time.

They watched the electric eel until it zapped its prey, lighting up a meter above its tank. They spent around ten minutes at the nearby touch tank, examining starfish and urchins, Akira naming each one increasingly silly names. The Aquarium staff member charged with looking after the touch tank joined in, and soon the three of them were laughing loud enough to disturb the other patrons. At another exhibit, Makoto became fascinated by the hatchet fish, and they both whispered awe at the jellies.

Their progress up the stories was slow, hampered by a mutual desire to linger at each viewing pane into the tank. Some of the fish there Makoto knew to expect from past visits—the moray eel, a large sea turtle, a selection of sharks, possibly a diver—but others, whether she’d seen them before or not, were surprise delights. Reaching the top of the tank, the pair looked down on clear waters and a structure of corals—real or fake, Makoto didn’t know—through which several of the critters they’d seen on the way up swam. They idled there, leaning on the concrete-and-plexiglass wall separating visitors from the tank, for quite some time, assigning personalities to the animals they saw.

On the way back down, Akira pulled over into one of the alcoves protecting a view into the tank, coaxing Makoto to follow with a touch of his hand. This particular window into the tank was edged by corals on the interior and a moray eel’s head popped out nearby, mouth gaping. They took a selfie in that spot, briefly battling the Aquarium’s poor lighting to get both the scene behind them and themselves to show up in the shot.

It was dinner time when they left the Aquarium. Makoto suggested stopping at one of the restaurants in the area that served pub-style food. According to Akira, this would not do for a date.

Makoto laughed. “Neither of us is exactly dressed for a fancy dinner.”

“Elephant & Castle isn’t date material,” he insisted.

“So we go there today and take a rain check on a nice dinner another time,” she said offhand.

“Are you suggesting a second date?” Akira asked, lips parting with not particularly innocent glee.

“I dare say I am.”


	12. Rank 11-A: All-Out Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats! You have reached the first half of the last chapter I managed to write for this fic. 
> 
> Unfortunately for three act structure, Rank 11 is both a resolution to the Akechi plotline and The One Actual Sex Scene. As such, I have broken this chapter out into Rank 11-A, which resolves the Akechi plotline, and Rank 11-B which is a sex scene and nothing else.
> 
> If you would like to proceed to the sex scene, Rank 11-B awaits.
> 
> If you would like to not read a sex scene, then your journey with this fic ends at the end of this page. I hope you've had fun!

After Akira and Futaba’s successful execution of their plan, Makoto encountered Akechi twice by chance. On the first occasion, she bumped into him while at a courthouse, obtaining documents relevant to the case she was working at the time. While initially exchanging only small talk, just before Makoto made her excuses to leave, Akechi said in the same tone as one might discuss the weather, “I heard one of your teammates was nearly arrested,” to which Makoto replied, “I heard you lost some important documents,” with a blazingly polite smile. Akechi ended the conversation barely three words later, leaving Makoto to her business.

On the second occasion, Akechi cornered her at work, presumably there to assist one of her colleagues with their case. She’d stayed late that day and was running off of her third cup of bland coffee—although all coffee seemed bland when someone other than Akira made it, she had found—pouring herself a fourth in the office’s kitchenette. Akechi snuck up behind her, only speaking on achieving touching distance. “Makoto—”

She yelped and nearly dropped the coffee pot.

Akechi laughed in a way that would have registered as pleasant some years ago, but that now seemed brittle and ironic. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She held her mug by the rim, obscuring the opening with her hand. It was not a comfortable way to hold a fresh cup of coffee. “How can I help you, detective?”

“So cold! You wound me.” Makoto didn’t respond, so Akechi continued, “I was chatting with the officers who nearly arrested your teammate. They said they didn’t arrest him because you claimed to be with him at the time of the assault, but… that’s not possible.”

Makoto had expected this. “Did you know that it’s illegal in the state of Massachusetts to record a conversation without the knowledge of those speaking?”

His expression darkened, and he removed his phone from his pocket. He stopped the recording. She watched him delete it.

“What gave it away?” he asked.

“Your personality.” She turned to leave the room, but Akechi grabbed her arm suddenly. The coffee sloshed in its mug dangerously.

“Akechi,” Makoto warned, turning red eyes full of righteous disdain upon him.

He let go. “You’re well-suited for each other. Busybody rebels the both of you. Don’t think it’s over, Makoto.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s over, Akechi. I know it is. Or did you want to test me?”

“You have nothing.”

“Don’t I? Did you think that virus erased all evidence of your crimes?”

He recoiled as if stung, shock registering in his face. She concluded that he hadn’t expected Akira to share the contents of the SD card with her.

“I think it’s better if you leave us alone, don’t you?” Makoto said.

“It would seem that it is,” Akechi replied, and Makoto left the room.

When she spoke to Akira on the subject, she did so in person, meeting him in the North End café he presently worked at. She didn’t want a record of the conversation when she explained her exchange with Akechi, and she hadn’t seen Akira’s most recent workplace. It seemed he’d worked at least once at every shop in Boston that served coffee. Keeping track of his current employer would require a spreadsheet and some patience, she thought.

Akira was impressed with her snappy comebacks. “Do you think he’ll retaliate?”

“No. I think he knows better than to cross me when there’s hard evidence on hand.”

“Would it be enough to convict?”

She sipped the mocha he’d made for her. It was extremely good. “I’m not sure. I’d have to see the footage to make a guess, but considering his reaction, I think it probably would. At the very least, he won’t gamble his career over this. He’s twisted, but he cares about that genuinely. That’s probably why he met with you at all in the first place—to make sure you weren’t going to do anything that could tarnish his reputation.”

Akira finished up his shift, and they walked together to Federal Street. Johanna was in the shop for some routine maintenance, and Sae had been unwilling to lend Makoto her car, which Makoto had borrowed the day before. “As shocking as it is,” Sae had said as she fished her keys out of Makoto’s shoulder bag, “I do have friends, and I do like to see them.” Makoto would have to take the bus home.

“I suppose,” she said as they walked, “it wouldn’t hurt to take precautions.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I can’t imagine him trying to physically harm any of us for its own sake, but I could see him trying to get the SD card back. It’s unlikely but possible. Since it’s the only leverage we have, it might be worth hiding it.”

Akira thought about that. “Would it be safe at your place?”

“Probably. If he’s stupid enough to break into Sae Niijima’s house, then there’s no predicting him.”

Akira chuckled at that. “I’d like to meet your sister.”

Makoto’s heart fluttered. Sae was her only family—that was a request to meet the family—that meant he was serious about her. Right? Right?? “That can be arranged,” was what she said.

They spent the rest of the walk planning their promised “fancy dinner date” and bid farewell when Makoto’s bus came, Akira making his way to Downtown Crossing to pick up the Orange Line. Since Sae was out, Makoto reheated leftovers for dinner, dove into her pajamas, and descended into the depths of the couch, a playlist of illegally posted _How It’s Made_ episodes lulling her to sleep while she scrolled through Twitter on her phone. She only went to bed when she dropped the phone on her face.

At five in the morning a call from Akira woke her up. “Sorry to wake you,” he said. “You could be a fortune teller, though.”

That didn’t make any sense, and she said so.

“The SD card—he did try to get it back.”

She jerked into full wakefulness. “Are you okay?” she said urgently.

“Mostly. I’m better in a fistfight than him.” He paused for a beat. “Sorry, I don’t really know why I called? It just felt like the thing to do.”

She put her phone on speaker, got out of the bed, and started getting dressed. “No, I’m glad you did. It’s—” Well, she didn’t know what it was, but the idea of not hearing about it until later or from someone else sat poorly with her. “I’d rather know,” she settled on. “Where are you now?”

“At home. One of my neighbors recorded what happened, bless him, so Akechi’s zero for two.” Akira snickered.

“I’m coming there,” Makoto said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I strongly disagree.” She stopped mid-toiletries. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

“No, I just don’t want you to go to unnecessary trouble.” Another pause. “I’d like to see you. I’m a bit the worse for wear though.” She could hear the smirk.

“Then I’ll be there.”

She took a Lyft to his place. One of his neighbors was outside, getting into their car. “Oh, here to check on your friend?” he asked. “That’s good. Wouldn’t hear of anyone callin’ the police.” He shook his head in disapproval.

“I’m kind of like the police,” she said, trying to smile in a friendly, reassuring way. “I’ll sort it out, don’t worry.”

Akira answered the door in a sweatshirt and gym pants, his hood up, looking bruised. His left cheekbone was almost all welt, although his right cheek wasn’t much better. A number of smaller cuts and bruises clustered around his mouth and nose. His hands bore evidence of delivering hits, and alarmingly chaffing around his wrists suggested he may have been bound at some point. He also seemed to favor one of his legs. He pulled Makoto inside while fury and concern warred within her for first shot at commentary. Fury seemed the likely winner; her vision was going black around the edges and her hands were shaking with it. The interior of the apartment was in disarray—searched.

“If it’s any comfort, I gave about as good as I got,” Akira said when he’d closed and locked the front door.

“Why does it look like you were cuffed?” she managed through the rage.

“Because I was.”

“I—don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life.” Akira placed a hand on her shoulder as she tried to calm down. Eventually, the black receded, though it took longer for her hands to stop vibrating. “Do you have a first aid kit or anything?”

“Yes?”

“Then let me do something about all of that.” She gestured to his wounds.

Armed with what appeared to be a never-before-opened, store-bought first aid kit, she sat him down on the couch and set about dressing his wounds, starting with his face. He winced at the touch of disinfectant but sat patiently, Morgana circling around them on the floor, mewling occasionally.

“He was waiting outside the apartment for me,” Akira said. “Got the cuffs on me when I was getting my keys out. He got us both inside, turned the place over, found where I’ve been keeping the SD card, but it’s got a combination lock, and I wouldn’t give him the combination so he decked me. He took the cuffs of me and put the lockbox in my hands, demanding I open it. I hit him in the junk with it instead.” Akira grinned, which reopened a cut on his lip, which Makoto dabbed at. When it had stopped bleeding again, he continued. “I tried to drag him out of the apartment while he was down, but he got back up about when I got the door open, and it was just a fistfight from there. One of the neighbors came out shouting that they were going to call the police, that they had the whole thing on camera, and Akechi took off. I convinced my neighbor not to call the cops, but he sent me a copy of the video.”

At Makoto’s instruction he offered her his wrists so she could tend to the marks left by the cuffs, which Akechi had clearly overtightened. She pressed her nail into each of his fingertips, asking him if he could feel it. He could, so no nerve damage.

“I should probably move,” he sighed. “Don’t know how he found me, but no reason to make it easy for him to come back again.”

“Oh don’t worry about that,” Makoto said darkly. “He won’t.”

Akira ducked his head to catch her eyes. “Is that murderous intent?”

“Not murderous, exactly.”

She finished with his wrists and demanded to see the leg he was favoring. On closer examination it didn’t seem serious, and there wasn’t anything she could do for it, anyway.

“Please don’t do anything dangerous,” Akira said.

“I rarely do.”

“Somehow that doesn’t sound true.”

Having thoroughly triaged his wounds and done what she could for them she sat on the couch with him and pulled him into a hug and held him as tight as she dared. He reciprocated in kind and for a moment they simply held one another. When she released him, she said, “I’m going to remind him why this was a bad idea.”

“Do you need help?”

“That video your neighbor took would be helpful.”

Akira picked up his phone and sent it to her via the chat app the Phantom Thieves used. It soundlessly played a preview when it arrived, which gave her enough information about how to best utilize it. “In that spirit,” Akira said, “take this with you.”

He picked up a small golden lockbox, shaped much like a treasure chest, off the floor and entered a combination, opening it and handing it to her. Within, she found a small selection of folded letters in handwritings mostly unfamiliar, but some familiar too; a photo of the Phantom Thieves all together, in costume, taken at a dress rehearsal shortly before the first qualifier; two faded ticket stubs; the remnants of a friendship bracelet; a subpoena relating to Akira’s long-ago trial; and a small black SD card in a clear plastic case. Makoto held each item with care as she unearthed the SD card, surreptitiously observing Akira’s reactions to each. With the exceptions of the subpoena and the SD card, and two letters she could tell had been written by Akechi, he showed warmth toward the objects.

She returned all of the times to the box, except the SD card, closed it, and returned it to him. He took it into the bedroom to put it away, leaving her to examine the SD card as an object. She tucked it into her wallet. When he returned to the living room, she said, “I’ll find a safe spot for it.” Akira nodded and laid down on the couch such that his head lay in her lap. She ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, and he sighed, sounding nothing short of exhausted. She let her head rest on the back of the couch.

They dozed like that until Makoto’s usual morning alarm went off on her phone. Irritated, she silenced it with a grunt.

“Work?”

“Unfortunately. I can call out if you want me to stay with you.”

He shook his head, which was amusing as it was still in her lap. Morgana had gotten onto Akira’s stomach at some point. “No, go to work. Maybe come back later?”

“I can do that.”

She took a Lyft to work but stopped outside the building to call Sae, providing as thorough a run-down of the Akechi-related matters as she could.

“You want him to know that I know?” Sae asked.

“Yes. Do you think this is a bad idea?”

“I think it would be better to go to the police with it, but I get that it’s not your call to make. Putting the scare in him seems like the next best strategy to me, too.”

Sae texted partway through Makoto’s workday to indicate she’d spoken with Akechi, and it seemed to have the desired effect. Which meant Makoto could move on to the phase two she’d planned in her head.

She left work early, taking another Lyft, completed the morning routine she hadn’t had a chance to do properly, packed an overnight bag, grabbed two sets of brass knuckles, and copied over the files on the SD card and the video of the morning’s fistfight onto two USB drives, one of which she stowed in a locking file cabinet in her room. She picked up Johanna from the mechanic and rode her to Futaba’s house, where she delivered the second USB, explaining its significance and the reason she’d put it together. Futaba immediately saw the value of having a back-up and promised to put it somewhere secure.

From there, Makoto went to Akechi’s place where she waited for him, leaning against Johanna. Akechi pulled up in his nondescript Camry, exiting the vehicle cautiously. He tossed his keys in one hand and remained at a distance from her. He already knew she could best him in a fight, and with the motorcycle gear she was essentially armored. Akechi’s face did look thoroughly bruised and beaten, to her satisfaction, and she silently praised Akira for a job well done.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.

She held up the SD card between two fingers, just long enough for him to comprehend what it was and returned it to an interior pocket of her jacket. Akechi spluttered, but Makoto wasn’t interested in what he had to say. “You are going to go inside and bring me every copy of the material on this memory card—and all material of similar nature that you have—that was not deleted by that virus, and you are going to watch me destroy it.”

He guffawed. “What’s to stop me from taking it from you?”

Makoto quirked a brow. “I was under the impression that Sae already spoke with you. Come now, Akechi, I know you’re good at deduction. Put two and two together.”

She watched the pieces click into place. “ _You_ made copies?”

“You understand the value of a failsafe.”

“This is blackmail.”

She merely laughed mirthlessly.

“No amount of police connections will protect you if I take this to my colleagues,” Akechi bluffed.

“You fundamentally cannot do that, Akechi. No, here is what happens next: you bring me those documents, I destroy them. And then you and your friends never so much as breathe near Akira or any of my people again. And in return, these dark secrets of yours stay just that: secrets. Do we have a contract?”

They did.

She watched him dig out all of the material the virus had missed: an external hard drive, five printouts, and an old phone. She made him watch as she crushed the phone under her boot and ran the hard drive over with Johanna, tossing the pieces into a nearby sewer grate. She made him burn the prints himself as she watched. She made him hand her his phone and watched her factory reset it. And when she was satisfied that all of Akechi’s blackmail material had been destroyed, she got on Johanna and rode to Akira’s place where she helped Akira put his house back in order and explained what she’d done, to his increasing shock.

“I realize I should have asked your permission to loop Sae in. I did it anyway because I couldn’t see a better way to make him understand just how risky his position is. I’m sorry I went behind your back on that,” she said.

Akira forgave her easily. “I’m mostly just stunned. I don’t know why I never thought to make a chain of failsafes before.”

She handed him the SD card back. “I don’t think it would be as effective if Sae and I weren’t part of that chain. We’re harder for him to get around than your average civilian.”

He looked at the memory card for a long moment.

“Akira?” Makoto asked. “Are you okay?”

“As much as I can be,” he answered, smiling weakly, tired eyes behind smudged glasses. “Do you want to see what’s on here?”

“I—think that’s up to you, Akira. Do _you_ want me to see what’s on there?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes returned to the card. “As far as I know, Akechi and I are the only people who’ve seen it.” He enclosed the card in his palm. “I don’t know how I feel about that either.” He looked up at her sharply. “How are you doing with all of this?”

Makoto sighed. “Honestly? It’s a lot.”

Akira snuggled up next to her on the couch, and she reciprocated in kind. “Sorry about it all,” he said.

“Akira, none of this is on you,” she replied. “I’m coming to terms with the fact that my ex is a far worse bastard than I knew, but god, Akira, we’re _okay_. You and me—we’re both okay. Despite what a motherfucker Akechi is, we’re here, we’re good people, and we’re _okay_.”

He set his glasses aside. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” He kissed the top of her head. “We’re survivors.” He started to laugh, but the laugh hitched, and he swiftly folded in on himself, as the sound converted into wracking sobs. Makoto reoriented, wrapping him in a hug, which he gratefully sank into, crying into her shoulder. Keeping him close, tears dripping out of her own eyes, she told him again and again “You’re safe. You deserved none of what happened. But you’re safe. It’s over now.” He shook with it—it wasn’t just this one incident, it was everything that had happened. It was the moments the video on the SD card showed and the existence of that memory card in the first place. It was the need to even have to keep it. It was the reality that in the end it had taken blackmail from a lawyer and a pseudo-investigator to make it stop. It was a fear and a pain held in check for so long that now, able to relax for the first time, Akira could not keep it back.

Makoto held him through it, letting him cling to her like the flotsam of a wreckage, speaking the gentle things she thought she would want to hear if their roles were reversed, allowing herself to cry too—to let out how it made her skin crawl to know that she had loved a monster once. When Akira’s sobs subsided, he pulled away to try to put himself into some sort of order. Makoto brought them both tissues and water. There was a text from Sae on her phone, asking if all was well with Akira. Makoto wrote back, “we’re just airing out trauma. You know, sleepover stuff.” Sae returned a thumbs up emoji, and Makoto set the phone aside.

After they’d both downed a glass of water each, Makoto told Akira of the ways in which Akechi had wronged her. They were smaller wrongs than those Akira had suffered, on the whole, but she did it to level the playing field, to put them on equal footing, and Akira understood that. Akira explained the aftermath of Akechi. Like her, he’d hidden from intimacy, his original advances upon her simply bravado backed by the intention to be funny, playful. They evolved over time to become ever more real—his attraction to her was and always had been genuine—but it was difficult for him to actualize in his mind doing anything about it beyond flirtation. Until, of course, he could—Makoto had bridged that gap.

They talked through the evening, through a dinner made together, through their nighttime routines, into the bedroom and under the sheets. Facing one another beneath the blankets, their fingers twining together between them, they spoke in hushed voices with only the dim light from a silicone lamp in the living room, filtered through the crack of the door, to show them the other’s eyes in the darkness. And as they began to drift off, Makoto promised herself that there would be nothing hidden between them.

Makoto woke in the night, as she so often did. They laid in much the same position they’d fallen asleep in, hands interwoven. Akira’s lips were parted, his face relaxed in the kind of repose only possible with a feeling of safety. Carefully, Makoto leaned forward to kiss his hair, moving back to see a momentary hint of smile twitch onto his face. She fell asleep again in a blissful humor. When she woke in the morning, the shifting of Akira’s weight in the bed was to blame. He was already awake, lying on his stomach and propping his head up with his hands to look at her.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she yawned. “I have an answer.”

“Oh? To Question Two?”

“Mm hm. Do you?”

“I had it from the start.”

“I hope it’s not a one-night stand,” she joked.

“I’m afraid so,” Akira intoned gravely, faux concern in his face.

“Drat,” Makoto said. “I was hoping we could be partners.”

Sincerity returning, he gave her a big smile and a kiss. “Me too.”


	13. Rank 11-B: All-Out Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats! You have reached the second half of the last chapter I managed to write for this fic. 
> 
> Unfortunately for three act structure, Rank 11 is both a resolution to the Akechi plotline and The One Actual Sex Scene. As such, I have broken this chapter out into Rank 11-A, which resolves the Akechi plotline, and Rank 11-B which is a sex scene and nothing else.
> 
> If you would like to proceed to the sex scene, Rank 11-B awaits below.
> 
> If you would like to not read a sex scene, then scroll no further, for you have reached the end of the journey. There is 0 plot awaiting below.
> 
> Thanks for reading, theoretical reader. I hope you've had a good time!

Makoto pulled Akira down for an additional kiss, which became several, which ended with her on top of him, tangled in the sheets. She glanced at her phone to confirm that, yes, it was the weekend and she was not meant to be at work, and then she went back to kissing him. At some point Akira’s hands had wound up underneath her shirt, at her back and waist—they felt hot, important. She reciprocated in kind, the hand not cradling his head finding a place against his chest.

Her only warning was the stretch of his mouth against hers, the feeling of sudden teeth there—he flipped them, using his core as much as anything else to manage it, taking his weight off her only long enough to shuck his shirt and cast it into a part of the room that was not the bed and therefore did not exist. He attacked her neck, opportunistically nibbling an earlobe and sliding his hands along her sides, riding her shirt up. He straddled her hips, which gave her plenty of room to squirm but no leverage to escape, which was exactly as she wanted it.

Akira requested her permission to banish her shirt to the not-bed space as well, whispering into her ear with hot breath and a voice so low and saturated that it sent anticipating shivers over her body. With her shirt went any pretense at control, her appreciation of his efforts verbal, loud, and frequently including his name. When next she saw his face, appearing from somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, the ferocity of his smile and possession in his eyes told her that he liked his name in her mouth, so she said it more.

She knew when her shorts and undergarments were removed, primarily because Akira’s fingers found their way inside of her shortly thereafter, but perhaps because of this she missed the removal of his own pants. Having finally noticed, she managed to swing upright, exerting her not inconsiderable strength to first meet him at the mouth and chest in a sitting position, and second to push him onto his back on the bed, using one hand to hold both of his wrists over his head, until her free hand and mouth had wandered too far down his body to maintain her grip. It was just as well. She’d reduced him to trembling moans which only increased when she took him into her mouth.

A sharp gasp rewarded her efforts, a strangled “Makoto, wait—” following. She did not wait, but he still managed to warn her before he came, shuddering and gasping, his eyes grown foggy with the release. She swallowed the evidence, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and wriggled back up to head level with Akira, feeling smug.

Akira didn’t speak for a moment, little tremors passing through him as Makoto watched, terribly delighted. When he did find words, they were as much exhaled as spoken.

“I had you on the ropes,” he said.

She shrugged eloquently. “You let your guard down.”

He hadn’t caught his breath yet, but that was immaterial in the face of that challenge. Makoto found her arms bound behind her back, swiftly tied with part of the sheets. Sitting behind her, he pulled her upright with care such that she was obliged to rest her weight against him. With her balanced, Akira set about teasing her quite thoroughly, pausing only to push her back down on the bed and spread her legs, using his mouth quite expertly to make her come, which she did, violently. He untied her, planting soft kisses on her while she rode out the orgasm. As its waves passed, she noticed that Akira had gained a second wind. Their next tussle resulted in a desperate and successful search for an unexpired condom—neither she nor Akira had needed one in so long that those stashed in her bag and the first ten Akira dug out of a drawer were all well past being usable.

Having found what Makoto referred to as “the one good condom in the house,” they dallied a moment longer in kisses and touches before Akira, properly equipped, entered her, sending the unique fireworks bliss-high of the first entrance through her, he making his own deep-chest sound expressing a similar sensation. The tension of orgasm built with each thrust, her hands searching for purchase on a lean back, and having come once before, her second was easier to achieve, bursting with Akira still inside of her, his following mere moments after, having held out to see hers through.

They acknowledged the world outside of the bed only long enough to dispose of the condom, but this was mere seconds and Akira was back in the bed, curling up with Makoto, his touch now reassuring rather than electric. Skin-to-skin among the rumpus of disturbed bedding, they spoke only in tones of affection to one another, laughing and smiling.


End file.
